


Divided Loyalties

by LennaNightrunner



Series: Divided Loyalties [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Jackson Whittemore, Canon-Typical Violence, Dominance, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Submission, Top Stiles Stilinski, Werewolf Jackson Whittemore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 12:32:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 31
Words: 154,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1186243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LennaNightrunner/pseuds/LennaNightrunner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jackson returns home after a month spent in London trying (and failing) to start the next phase of his life there. Knowing now from experience that he’d be a fool to try to make it as a werewolf on his own, he asks Derek to take him in as a beta. Derek agrees on the condition that Jackson will do as he’s told. Jackson hopes that, despite the mess left in the wake of the Kanima, he might be able to repair his life in Beacon Hills. Of course, things haven’t really been going the way Jackson has hoped lately...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fealty

**Author's Note:**

> TIMELINE: Canon-compliant through the end of Season 2, starts during the summer between Seasons 2 and 3 and becomes a Season 3A AU of sorts. Jackson was only in London for a month, Allison and Scott never broke up, and Allison didn’t spend the summer in France.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER ONE: FEALTY

STILES

Stiles had gotten used to werewolves sneaking into his room, generally uninvited and almost always at night. (This was to maximize their scariness, he suspected.) Locks had proven to be pointless, and boobytraps would just make them angry, so he’d become resigned to it. If they wanted in, they’d get in. Nothing he could do about it.

Since the debacle of Stiles getting abducted by Gerard after the lacrosse game, the various werewolves in Stiles’ life had decided to keep a close eye on him. It used to be Isaac who checked on Stiles when Scott couldn’t, but once Jackson had come back from London and asked to join Derek’s pack, Derek had given him the job. Everyone knew it was a test of obedience. Jackson hated Stiles. Stiles hated Jackson. Jackson would never spend a moment in Stiles’ company that he didn’t have to. No big loss there, since Stiles felt the same way.

Of course, it would’ve been nice if someone had _told_ Stiles that his new shadow was the person who’d once again stolen the only person he’d ever been in love with from him. Sure, Jackson and Lydia weren’t technically back together yet, but Lydia turning Jackson into a real werewolf through the power of her freaking _love_ had set Stiles’ ten-year plan for winning her over back by at least another five years. And if he was honest with himself, Stiles wouldn’t bet much money on his own chances of getting Lydia to ever look at him the way she’d looked at Jackson when she’d thought he was dying. The pain of that moment for Stiles was equivalent to at least fifty times the pain of Gerard beating the crap out of him.

So yeah. A heads-up would’ve been great.

A slight breeze from his supposed-to-be-closed-and-locked bedroom window alerted Stiles to the night’s customary werewolf visit. He whirled around in his chair, ready to tell Isaac that maybe he could just fucking _call_ to check on him for once.

“Look, dude, this _really_ isn’t necessa--” Stiles did a double-take. “You’re not Isaac.”

An entirely different well-muscled, sharp-jawed, blue-eyed, cocky, emotionally stunted werewolf was perched on Stiles’ windowsill.

“No shit, Stilinski.”

Stiles’ eyes narrowed. “Jackson. Back from Across the Pond, eh? I was kinda hoping you’d’ve drowned in it.”

Jackson rolled his eyes as he stepped into Stiles’ bedroom, then closed the window behind him. “You don’t have much of a history of getting what you want, though.”

Stiles bristled, which made Jackson smirk. _Great_. Two-dozen words exchanged and the slimy ex-lizardman already had the upperhand. And it didn’t help Stiles’ self-confidence that Jackson was taking in Stiles’ messy, laundry-strewn bedroom with a look of extreme distaste.

“I’m gonna guess that you’re Derek’s new errand boy, so let me save you some time.” Stiles held his arms out. “As you can see, I am both in my room and fine. You can go report back to your master now.”

This barb earned Stiles a fierce glare from Jackson.

“Oh, that’s right,” said Stiles with a smile. “I bet you don’t like going from top dog to the lowest beta on the Hale pack totem pole. You might as well be Derek’s bit--”

Stiles didn’t get the rest of the word out because Jackson had lunged at him and pinned him against the wall by his throat. _Jeez_ , like alpha, like beta, apparently. Jackson’s pointy wolfteeth were showing and his eyes were a lot bluer and a lot glowier than usual. Stiles gave himself a too-late-to-be-remotely-useful-now reminder not to piss off newly-minted werewolves. Plus self-control had never been one of Jackson’s strong points, even as a human.

“Coming… to check… that I’m safe,” gasped Stiles in Jackson’s supernaturally strong grip, “is kinda pointless… if _you_ make… me _not safe_.”

Jackson regarded Stiles with a look that made it clear he was seriously considering crushing his windpipe. Finally, with a growl of frustration, he let Stiles go. Stiles promptly fell to the floor in an undignified, wheezing heap.

“As graceful as ever,” Jackson sneered.

Stiles’ voice was hoarse when he spoke: “Like a friggin’ ballerina.”

The inevitable bruises that were already forming in the shape of Jackson’s fingertips were going to be fun to try to explain to his dad. Maybe he could borrow a scarf from Isaac...

Jackson said nothing as Stiles hauled himself to his feet. “Uh… How long you planning on staying? I mean, apart from being nearly choked to death, you can see that I’m safe. Go report back to Derek or whatever so I can go to sleep.”

“Right. Sleep.” Jackson said skeptically. “Not stay up half the night watching anime porn.”

“Psh, hentai is _so_ two years ago,” drawled Stiles. “I’ve moved on.”

Jackson snorted.

“Seriously, dude. I’m fine. Go away.” Stiles made a shooing motion, at which Jackson bristled.

“I can’t go yet.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “What? Why not?”

“I have to stay long enough to prove I was here.” Jackson shuffled where he stood, looking a bit awkward.

“So go kill time somewhere else,” said Stiles. “Take a walk. Dogs love walks.”

Jackson growled threateningly.

“All right, all right, no more dog jokes.” Stiles put up both hands in surrender. “But I still want you to go.”

“And I said I _can’t_.”

“ _Why_?”

Jackson shifted uncomfortably and glared down at the carpet. Stiles crossed his arms, waiting expectantly for an answer. Finally, Jackson fought through his embarrassment.

“I have… I have to be here long enough to… to smell like you.” The last four words were mumbled in a rush, but Stiles caught them.

“... _Smell like me_?” God, werewolves were so _weird_.

“You heard me,” Jackson snapped. His cheeks were slightly pink.

Stiles, ever the problem-solver, rallied. “Okay, fine. Take one of my shirts or something.”

“I am _not_ touching that nightmare of plaid flannel,” said Jackson, indicating Stiles’ laundry pile.

“Plaid Flannel Nightmare is my favorite indie band,” Stiles joked without missing a beat, but Jackson didn’t appreciate it. “I dunno, go sit on my bed for a while?”

“Not when I don’t know the last time you washed your sheets.”

“You are fucking _impossible_ ,” said Stiles with a groan of frustration. “Got a better idea?”

Jackson’s face indicated that he did have a better idea, but it was one he _really_ didn’t want to try.

“Come on, spit it out,” said Stiles. “I’d like what little privacy a guy can get in a town full of trespassing werewolves back for the night.”

Jackson rolled his eyes again. He considered Stiles for a few moments. He shifted indecisively, then scowled in resignation. “Come here.”

“What?”

“Don’t ask questions for once in your fucking life.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes at Jackson. “How do I know this isn’t a trick?”

“I think I’ve made it clear that I can hurt you pretty damned easily if I want to,” said Jackson.

That was a fair point. Stiles sighed and walked over to stand in front of Jackson. When Jackson took a step forward to invade Stiles’ personal space (seriously, like alpha, like beta), Stiles had to force himself not to retreat.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asked warily.

“Shut up,” said Jackson. “Just let me get this over with.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

Jackson growled again. Stiles shut his mouth and stood as still as possible. He didn’t think Jackson would dare to do any (more) serious damage to him, but it still wasn’t a good idea to play with fire. Or, in this case, play with very sharp teeth and claws.

Then things got more than a little strange. Jackson tilted his head--How was it that Jackson was shorter than Stiles? When did that happen? Did muscles magically make you seem taller than you were? Or was it just his gigantic ego?--and brought his face close to Stiles’ neck, where he audibly inhaled Stiles’ scent. This was something Stiles was intimately familiar with after Scott’s whole sniff-everyone-on-the-lacrosse-team-to-find-out-who’s-a-werewolf strategy, but that didn’t make it any less weird.

When Jackson pulled back, Stiles was startled to find that his eyes were _blue_ again. Not Hi-I’m-Jackson-Whittemore-and-my-eyes-are-the-color-of-the-ocean-at-sunrise-after-a-storm blue, but Hi-I’m-Jackson-Whittemore-and-I-used-to-be-a-murderous-lizardman-but-now-I’m-a-real-werewolf blue. And there was something dazed and faraway about them that made Stiles worry that he smelled like werewolf dinner and maybe he wasn’t so safe after all.

But then Jackson’s eyes went all ocean-after-a-storm again and Stiles could resume breathing. That was, until Jackson’s hand was in his hair. What? He raised his eyebrows in confusion and Jackson sighed.

“A lot of your scent gets trapped in your hair, okay?” he said defensively. “It’s a good thing you grew it out. Makes things easier.”

“Uh… You’re welcome?” said Stiles.

Jackson ran his other hand over Stiles’ hair, at which point Stiles felt an unexpected and not entirely unpleasant shiver snake up his spine before Jackson pulled away.

“You don’t need that much _product_ in your hair, Stilinski. It’d probably stick up all on its own trying to escape that thick skull.”

“Says the guy whose hair doesn’t even move in a strong wind.”

Jackson made a big show of looking grossed out and grumbling as he wiped his hands on his own shirt. Then he sniffed his shirt experimentally, stepped back into Stiles’ space to _smell his neck_ again, and shrugged.

“Good enough.”

“Hooray,” said Stiles unenthusiastically. “Now go forth and show Derek that I need a shower. And next time, _knock_.”

The only response Stiles got was another eye-roll and a scowl before Jackson had fled through the window and disappeared into the night, leaving Stiles with the phantom sensation of fingers running through his hair and some confusing thoughts about the attractiveness of eyes that indicated someone might be about to turn into a potentially violent wolfman.

* * *

JACKSON

If Jackson hadn’t spent a month of his life as a giant reptile who unknowingly murdered innocent people on the orders of a severely unhinged classmate, he would have said that the current state of his life was a nightmare. There was nothing Jackson hated more than taking orders from people. Jackson had to be perfect. Jackson had to be the best. And if he was the best, then he didn’t have to do anything for anyone.

Now he had to do anything and _everything_ that sorry excuse for an alpha werewolf said. Because even though submitting to Derek was excruciating for Jackson, it was better than being dead. Derek hadn’t filled Jackson in entirely on what had happened to the other betas, but there was something that he, Peter, and Lahey knew that they didn’t want McCall and the others to know. They were afraid. Jackson could smell it on them. And when werewolves were afraid, it would be beyond foolish not to be afraid, too.

The worst part about it, though, was the way turning into a true werewolf manipulated his emotions. Jackson had thought he’d be free once he’d been cured, but he now knew that he would always be beholden to someone. The Kanima sought a master. The werewolf sought an alpha. And unless Jackson ever became an alpha in his own right, he would always belong to Derek Hale or some other alpha.

Deep down, not only did Jackson _have_ to obey Derek in order to stay in the pack; he _wanted_ to obey Derek. Following Derek’s commands was humiliating and beyond frustrating, but if Jackson were honest with himself, it also felt… _right_. The wolf in him was eager to please. It longed for signs of approval, was willing to duck Jackson’s head in deference or bare his neck in submission to Derek. He _liked_ being a beta. He hated that he liked it, but he did.

So when Derek had ordered him to _babysit_ the spazzy, nerdy kid that was always falling all over himself to get a moment of attention from Lydia, Jackson had beat down his own fierce stubbornness and outrage at being told to do something so demeaning. Derek was testing Jackson. Jackson would not fail.

Of course, what should have been a boring, easy task became complicated from the start. When Jackson had returned to the loft to check in with Derek after going to Stilinski’s place, he’d been told (grudgingly, because sincerity was hard for Derek) that he’d done a satisfactory job. He’d been gone for the right amount of time--no need for Derek to know that Jackson had walked around the neighborhood to kill an hour--and he smelled enough like Stilinski to prove he’d been there.

That was the complication: the scent. His heightened sense of smell was the first thing Jackson had noticed when he’d come to as a werewolf. Since then he’d smelled a lot of things he’d never noticed before. Most of them were awful: the London Underground, for example. But others were pleasant, even empowering. Foods he liked tasted even better now. He could smell emotions: anger, fear, jealousy. Best of all, he could smell arousal. It was a pretty big ego boost being able to walk through a room and instantly know if a girl--or a guy, in some cases--was turned on by him. Not that he could act on it. Derek had warned Jackson about the dangers of losing control when he was still a ‘young’ werewolf, and had pretty much forbidden him from so much as kissing a girl, let alone fucking one.

But now… _this_. This new scent he’d never noticed before he’d been turned. The one that smelled better than anything he’d ever smelled in his life. The one that was currently clinging to his hands and his shirt because he’d put it there several hours ago. The one that belonged to Stiles Can’t-Shut-His-Fucking-Mouth-to-Save-His-Fucking-Life Stilinski.

Jackson took off his jacket and tugged his shirt over his head, then flung them across the room, as far away from him as possible. This was insane. He’d been surprised as soon as he’d entered Stilinski’s room to find that even though the place was an absolute mess, it actually smelled pretty good. It hadn’t been until he’d smelled the guy’s neck that he’d understood what was happening. He’d felt his eyes _change_ as they began to glow, and the pressure of his teeth starting to grow sharp before he regained control. The scent made him _want_ in a way he’d never felt before, and it had taken a considerable amount of self-restraint to keep it cool long enough to get out of there without Stilinski suspecting something.

The whole experience was utterly bewildering. Though Jackson had been raised in a somewhat conservative household, any homophobia that could have rubbed off on him had been immediately extinguished after Danny had come out to him. Danny was Danny, no matter who he wanted to fuck. But Jackson was not gay. He had always been attracted to girls ( _very_ much so) and had never thought of a guy as a sex object. It just wasn’t who he was. So why the _fuck_ would _Stilinski_ of all people suddenly smell like the sweetest lay he could ever hope to land?

Being a werewolf was all kinds of fucked up.

Jackson sat down on the edge of his bed and put his head in his hands. This turned out to be a very bad idea, because he’d forgotten that they still smelled like Stilinski. He growled to himself, then immediately got up to wash his hands. It took four washes before he was satisfied that the smell was gone. Upon returning to his bedroom, however, the first thing his eyes landed on was his discarded shirt, lying on the floor accusingly. Jackson glared at it and sat down again.

God, he could still smell it from across the fucking room.

After several long minutes of indecision, he finally gave in. He got up, grabbed the shirt, and flopped down in his bed with it. He only bothered to kick off his shoes before pulling the blankets over himself, too tired and distracted to bother changing. Like the glorified dog that he was, he sniffed at the shirt again, and immediately felt a pang of longing in the pit of his stomach. Then a deeper breath, and he began to salivate. Soon he was half hard and practically growling as the wolf within him expressed a sense of excited satisfaction. All from a fucking _smell_.

Falling asleep with his face pressed into that shirt might have been the most pathetic thing Jackson had ever done, but he slept better than he had in what felt like months. When he woke up the next day he stashed the shirt under one of his pillows so it wouldn’t accidentally get washed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my beta [Ismene_Jane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ismene_Jane) and pre-post reader [AradiaFirehawk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AradiaFirehawk), and thanks to you for reading!


	2. Fragility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER TWO: FRAGILITY

STILES

“Jackson?” Stiles launched a lacrosse ball toward Scott, who was goalkeeping. “Seriously? _Jackson?_ It’s bad enough that I basically get my room broken into on a nightly basis--which, by the way, is kind of embarrassing when you’re the _Sheriff’s son_ \--without having to play host to the guy who--setting aside the fact that he killed a bunch of people and tried to kill me too because yeah, sure, that wasn’t _technically_ his fault--has the undying devotion of the only girl I’ve ever loved _and_ has emotionally abused me since the day he lowered himself to even realizing I existed.”

Scott got a chuckle in while Stiles took a much-needed breath.

“At least _Isaac_ doesn’t get all judgy about my laundry when he’s breaking-and-entering.”

Scott raised an eyebrow. “Jackson was judging your laundry?”

“We’re getting off topic here,” said Stiles. “Point is, you gotta tell Derek to call off his new watchdog.”

“I can’t tell Derek how to run his pack, Stiles,” said Scott. “You know that.”

Stiles scowled. “Don’t I have any say in who gets to stalk me?”

“It’s not _stalking_.” Scott rolled his eyes. “Derek’s looking out for you. We all are.”

“Oh, yes. Derek cares _so_ much about my well-being that he sends the person who hates me most in the world to _make sure I’m okay_. That’ll end well.”

“To be fair to Jackson, your laundry does kinda reek.” Isaac smirked at the little flail Stiles did when Isaac appeared behind him, fully geared up and holding his crosse. Right. Werewolf hearing. Scott came over from the goal.

Stiles glared at them both. “I hate you. All of you. Werewolves? Now right between dentists and cream of mushroom soup on the Official List of Things Stiles Hates.”

“Derek’s just testing him, man,” said Isaac. “Jackson’s never been in a pack before. This is basic submission stuff: order the beta to do something that’s not too dangerous but that he really doesn’t want to do.”

“So I get to be the guinea pig for Jackson’s obedience training,” said Stiles. “ _Fantastic_.”

“Come on, Stiles. It’s not gonna be every night,” said Scott. “I’ll check on you, too.”

“As long as I don’t interfere with a booty-call,” Stiles grumbled. He regretted it as soon as he saw Scott frown. It wasn’t just Allison taking up Scott’s time; he had work and summer school plus he was trying to help his mom come to terms with the whole werewolves-exist-and-my-son’s-one-of-them thing. Stiles shot Scott an apologetic look. Thankfully Scott knew Stiles well enough to know that he didn’t mean to be an ass about Allison, and said nothing.

“You can text me if he gives you any crap,” said Isaac. “I can get there in like five minutes if there’s a problem, and Derek’ll want to know anyway.”

“You guys are basically playing out the first ten minutes of a horror movie right now,” said Stiles. “You know that, right? Well, you’ll be sorry when my dad finds me in my room gnawed to bits by Jackson’s shiny new werewolf teeth.”

“Don’t be so pessimistic, Stiles.” Scott clapped his hand on Stiles' shoulder pad. “You know Jackson’s smart enough to bury you somewhere nobody’d ever find the body.”

Stiles gave Scott and Isaac each their own personal glare, then stalked back to the other side of the field, muttering darkly to himself when he heard them laughing behind him.

“No wolf powers, Isaac!” warned Stiles preemptively, waving his crosse menacingly for emphasis. Scott and Isaac both turned to Stiles and flashed their gold eyes behind their masks with twin wolfy smiles.

“Yep, werewolves are definitely at the top of the list,” grumbled Stiles.

* * *

JACKSON

Jackson took a moment while perched on the Stilinskis’ roof to brace himself for the onslaught of best-smell-on-the-fucking-planet that was going to assault his senses the second he opened the window. His first visit had been three days ago, but McCall had taken over guard duty for the last two nights so Derek had let Jackson stay home. Derek wasn’t particularly happy about the fact that Jackson still wanted to stay with his family instead of the pack. However, unlike Lahey, Jackson still _had_ a family, and it was in everyone’s best interests if Jackson tried to act like not much had changed. An alpha pack coming to town was going to cause plenty of opportunities to expose the werewolves without throwing another teen runaway into the mix. Besides, the loft was crowded enough as it was.

Stilinski didn’t even look up when Jackson jumped down from the window.

“Yeah, yeah, I got Scott’s ‘Allison and I are going to have a secret romantic rendezvous, sorry I’m a shitty friend, Stiles’ text so you’re welcome to make yourself smell like me and fuck off.”

Jackson shut the window behind him. “Hello to you, too.”

“I’m serious, dude.” And Stilinski did look serious, which was rare. “Put your paws all over my hair, take a shirt, whatever you gotta do to smell like _Eau de Stiles_. Just get it over with and get out.”

“Someone’s pissy tonight,” said Jackson.

“ _Pissy_.” Stilinski laughed mirthlessly. “Y’know, you have a knack for boiling everyone’s problems down to a couple of words you can dismiss. Really, it’s a talent. I’m impressed. Please teach me the art of not giving a flying fuck about anyone else, because I could _seriously_ use it.”

“If you’re looking for a therapy session, Stilinski, I’ll call Lahey.”

“I’m _looking_ for some fucking dignity. You know what I get instead? Babysat by a pack of dysfunctional, bloodthirsty, lycanthropic orphans who have to make sure I haven’t been violently murdered by God knows what could be lurking out there waiting to kill defenseless humans who associate with werewolves because my best friend is too busy fucking the girl who tried to kill said werewolves to do it himself.”

Jackson barely heard the second half of Stilinski’s rant because the pit of his stomach had turned cold at the word ‘orphan.’ Jackson was _not_ an orphan. Jackson had parents who cared about him. So what if they weren’t his birth parents? So what if Jackson hadn’t been able to tell them he loved them since he’d found out he was adopted? He wasn’t the same as Derek or Lahey. He _wasn’t_.

In the space of a few seconds, Jackson was gripping the front of Stilinski’s shirt menacingly. “Don’t _ever_ say that again.”

Stilinski was temporarily shocked out of his anger. “What--That Scott’s sleeping with Allison?”

“That I’m an _orphan_ , you piece of shit.” Jackson growled through the word he hated.

“Fine,” said Stilinski. “You can be the dysfunctional, bloodthirsty, lycanthropic _douchebag_. Happy?”

Jackson rolled his eyes. “Fucking _ecstatic_.”

“Then can we _not_ eat the guy who helps the werewolves stay alive and secret?” said Stilinski.

“What?”

“You’re all wolfed out, dude,” said Stiles, gesturing to where Jackson was still gripping his shirt for emphasis. “Do you seriously not notice when that happens? Because that’s a problem.”

Jackson made a conscious effort to remove his hand from Stilinski’s shirt and took a step back. He felt his teeth with his tongue. They were definitely sharp. Through glowing blue eyes he saw the five cuts his claws had made in Stilinski’s horrendous T-shirt. Well, at least one good thing had come out of this, but Derek would be _furious_ if he found out. Jackson took a few deep breaths and felt his body shift back to normal.

Stilinski examined his shirt and sighed. “I should just designate a shirt to wear whenever I’m around you guys. Like people do for when they paint or dye their hair.”

“Like that thing cost more than five dollars anyway,” said Jackson

Stilinski glared at Jackson. “Are you going to insult my fashion sense every time you come here?”

“Hard to insult something that doesn’t exist.”

“Sick burn, bro,” said Stilinski sarcastically.

Jackson gave an exasperated sigh, and it was only upon breathing out that he noticed how much of Stilinski’s scent he’d breathed _in_ when he’d been closer to him. He felt his eyes flicker and Stilinski raised his eyebrows, looking almost… concerned?

“Okay, that’s it,” said Stilinski.

“What?”

“I’m teaching you control.” Stilinski started rolling up the sleeves of the horrendous flannel shirt he was wearing over his clawed-up T-shirt. “You wolf out when I even _look_ at you the wrong way, and saying sorry to Derek later won’t magically reattach my head to my body.”

Jackson snorted. “ _You_ are going to teach _me_ control?”

“I did it for Scott,” said Stilinski. “Not only is it great not having to worry about accidentally killing your friends, but it also keeps you from wolfing out during competitive sporting events.”

Jackson considered this for a moment. In the ‘pro’ column was the fact that McCall really did seem to have the best control among the teenaged werewolves. In the ‘con’ column was the fact that if he stayed here he was going to be surrounded by Stilinski’s scent. Or maybe that was a ‘pro,’ too? Regardless, if he could learn to stay in control around that _scent_ , he could do it around anything.

“Fine.”

“Awesome,” said Stilinski. He finished rolling up his sleeves. “Okay, this is very important. Make this your mantra: ‘Stiles is human. I could tear Stiles' guts out with my super strength and wolfy claws while trying to tickle him if I’m not careful. Everyone likes Stiles' guts exactly where they are right now.’ Got it?”

Jackson’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “I can’t think of a scenario in which I’d _tickle_ you.”

“ _Got it_?”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Jackson. “I’ll try not to eviscerate you.”

“Do or do not, there is--”

“Could you _be_ a bigger nerd?”

“Hey, you got the reference. What does that make you?”

Jackson growled and felt his eyes flash again. “Stilinski, I swear--”

“Heyheyhey remember the mantra!” Stilinski held his hands out in front of him defensively.

“Stiles is human,” grumbled Jackson. “Don’t tear his guts out.”

“Good,” said Stilinski. “Because Stiles is probably about to break his frail human hand on your jaw.”

“Wha--?”

The punch was surprisingly painful considering how weak Stilinski was compared with Jackson. Hell, he’d been weak compared with Jackson when they were both human. But Stilinski had caught him off guard, and Jackson could feel a bruise form briefly before it healed itself.

“Mother _fucker_! Are werewolves made of _rocks_?” Stilinski was clutching his right hand with his left one and wincing like he’d just hit a brick wall. Jackson smirked, but Stilinski glared defiantly at him and said, “Worth it.”

“Is this your plan?” asked Jackson. “Hit me till I shift?”

“Pretty much.” Stilinski’s next punch hit Jackson’s ribs. It knocked the wind out of him a bit, but didn’t do any damage. “And if you try to hit me back I’m telling Derek.”

“You’re a little shit, you know that?”

Stilinski grunted as he punched the same spot on Jackson’s ribs again. “It’s been said.”

After the third punch, Jackson felt his eyes glowing again. He took a deep breath to try to calm himself as the fourth punch hit the other side of his ribs. That was no good; all he could smell was Stilinski’s anger and it shouldn’t have been exciting to Jackson but it was. He searched his mind for his anchor as he felt his teeth sharpening.

“Remember the mantra, wolfboy,” Stiles warned when he saw Jackson’s eyes, and punched him in the stomach.

“Stiles is human,” Jackson repeated determinedly. “Don’t eviscerate him.”

“You’re goddamned right,” said Stilinski, starting to breathe a little more heavily. “Like you give a shit.”

Another punch to his stomach. “Stiles is human,” Jackson muttered as his fingernails turned into claws.

“I spent _weeks_ trying to protect people from you,” Stilinski huffed, “protect you from yourself.” Jackson’s ribs again.

“Don’t eviscerate him.”

“I told you _exactly_ what was happening to you.” His stomach.

“Stiles is human,” Jackson growled.

“And you--ungh!--you took out a fucking _restraining order_ against me.” Ribs again. And as Jackson listened he started to understand: This wasn’t just about helping Jackson, this was _personal_.

Jackson wanted to stop saying the mantra. He wanted to stop talking, period. He wanted to shut off his brain. He wanted to surrender to the wolf. Stilinski didn’t smell good anymore. He smelled _furious_. Jackson didn’t like the way that made him feel.

He squeezed his eyes shut and said through gritted teeth, “Stiles is human.”

“Have you lifted that, by the way?” Two more punches to his stomach in quick succession. And maybe the punches were starting to get to him, because something near Jackson’s stomach was starting to twinge.

“Stiles is human.”

“Because I’m pretty sure--” Stilinski swallowed; he was panting now. “--pretty sure we’re not supposed to be in the same room--” All the punches were to Jackson’s stomach now. “--unless we’re at school.”

“Stiles…” Jackson curled his hands into fists at his sides and felt his claws cut into his palms. “Stiles is human.”

“I-I…” Stilinski’s punches were starting to lose power. “I hate you.” But he kept going. “I _hate_ you.” Another punch. And another. And another.

Jackson recognized it now. The twinge in his stomach? That was _guilt_. He stared wide-eyed at Stilinski as the human-- _Stiles is human_ \--punched him again and again until the fight went out of Stilinski.

 _Stiles is human_.

And then it stopped. Stilinski’s arms fell heavily to his sides and he turned away from Jackson. Sweat was pouring down Stilinski’s face and making his shirt stick to his chest and arms. He looked like he might fall over.

Jackson said nothing. He’d done it. He’d held back the wolf. Not perfectly, but still, it was a start.

“Good job,” said Stilinski, breathing hard and rubbing at his red, quickly-bruising knuckles. “Now get the _fuck_ out of my house.”

When Jackson got to the loft, Derek’s eyebrows lifted at Jackson’s scent as soon as he walked through the door.

“You really pissed off Stiles, huh?”

“Yeah,” said Jackson. “What else is new?”

* * *

STILES

Stiles groaned as the sun streamed through his window and shone in his eyes. He moved very slightly and winced. Everything hurt. Like, _everything_. Muscles Stiles hadn’t even known _existed_ hurt.

It took Stiles two tries to lift his right arm so he could look at his hand. It was slightly swollen and every single one of his knuckles was bruised purple. Gingerly, he opened and closed the fingers of both hands, testing to make sure that he had full range of motion. Then he did the same for his wrists. Miraculously, nothing appeared to be broken or sprained. Still, pain. Lots and lots of pain.

He crawled to the edge of the bed on his stomach and grabbed his Adderall and a glass of water from his nightstand. He chased it with some Ibuprofen and made a mental note to _kick_ Jackson next time instead.

Jackson. A ball of apprehension formed in Stiles' stomach. Not only had Stiles physically attacked the guy, but he’d also spilled his guts about his _feelings_ concerning the whole Kanima nightmare and how Jackson treated him. It had been cathartic at the time, but now Stiles just felt… embarrassed.

A knock at his window preceded Scott climbing into his room.

Stiles waved half-heartedly. It hurt. “Please tell me Jackson went back to London.”

“Nope,” said Scott.

“Killed by a rogue hunter?”

Scott laughed. “Sadly, no.”

“Grounded by Derek?”

“Not that I know of.”

Stiles sighed deeply. “I hate life.”

“Join the club,” Scott said cheerfully, and hopped onto Stiles' bed. “Whoa, what happened to your hands?”

“Jackson’s torso,” said Stiles. He glared down at his hands, annoyed that he’d lost his shit around Jackson and done far more damage to himself than to the only werewolf who could rival Derek in surliness.

“You _punched_ him?” Scott looked impressed.

“Yeah.” Stiles groaned. “A lot.”

Scott busted up laughing. “I doubt you did much damage.”

“Pretty sure none at all.”

“And he just… _let you hit him_?” asked Scott, amazed.

Stiles flopped back in bed and covered his face with his forearm. “I was teaching him _control_.”

“Did it work?”

“Well, he didn’t kill me.”

“Good job, then!” said Scott. “Though I think you might wanna toss that shirt.”

Stiles looked down at his shirt and rolled his eyes. It was the one Jackson had ripped with his claws the previous night.

“Should I tell Derek to give him a stern talking to?”

“Nah.” Stiles grimaced at his shirt. “I deserved that one.”

“I’m not gonna ask.”

“Wise choice,” said Stiles.

Scott flopped down in Stiles' desk chair. “So what are your plans today?”

Since going back to sleep obviously wasn’t an option, Stiles fought an undignified battle with gravity and dragged his aching body into a sitting position on the bed.

“I was considering curling up into a miserable ball and waiting patiently for death.”

“Since when are you ever patient?”

Stiles tossed an errant sock at Scott, who was grinning like an idiot.

“I’d ask why your disposition is so _sunny_ this morning but I’m guessing it has something to do with a certain _femme fatale_. The one you left me with a severely unhinged ex-lizardman for.”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry I bailed on you at the last minute,” said Scott. “It’s just hard to predict when she can get away from her dad sometimes.”

“My heart bleeds for you,” drawled Stiles.

“Let me make it up to you. Pizza and gaming?”

“Are you forgetting the part of this disaster where Jackson’s torso is made of rocks?” Stiles held up his bruised hands for emphasis.

“You could man the player’s guide while I play?”

Stiles considered for a moment before deciding to accept Scott’s peace offering. “Okay, fine. But only if the game doesn’t involve punching. I never thought I’d say this, but I’m not in the mood for shamelessly graphic simulated violence today.”

“You got it.” Scott smiled. “Pepperoni and sausage?”

“Extra cheese, or you’re never getting off my shit list. _Extra_ extra cheese. Like, _three times_ the normal cheese.”

Scott bowed obediently and used Stiles' computer (without asking, typical) to order the pizza online. While Scott was struggling with the hopelessly complicated website, Stiles found his eyes wandering to the spot where he and Jackson had been standing the previous night. The spot where he’d made an absolute idiot of himself by letting out a ridiculous self-indulgent rant while he was supposed to be ‘helping’ the guy who was the closest thing Stiles had to a nemesis.

He looked down at his ruined shirt. His not-quite-ruined hands. Now, more than ever, he didn’t want Jackson to be the wolf checking up on him. He longed for Isaac’s smartass remarks and relentless pessimism. He never, ever wanted to see Jackson again. Which meant he’d probably see him at the first possible opportunity, given the overall trend of Stiles' life.

Pizza first. Crippling self-consciousness caused by bloodthirsty lycanthropic douchebags later.

* * *

JACKSON

It was fucking unbearable. Stilinski was absolutely the _last_ person who should’ve been teaching Jackson _control_. Sure, it was impressive that he’d helped McCall do it, but (as far as Jackson knew) Stilinski’s scent wasn’t wolf catnip for McCall. Derek had helped Jackson enough with _finding his anchor_ and all that crap before he’d gone to London that Jackson had done all right keeping the wolf reined in on his own, even during the full moon. But when Stilinski was within a yard of him, staying fully human took some serious effort.

Still, the reason he’d agreed in the first place was still there: if he could keep from shifting around Stilinski, he could keep from doing it anytime, right?

Jackson thought of the key. His anchor. He hadn’t told Derek what his anchor was and he had no intention of ever telling anyone. The key wasn’t just a symbol of what he and Lydia had meant to each other; it was the object that had defeated the Kanima. It had made order out of chaos. He kept it on his key ring to remind himself of that moment. Of order. Of control.

Stilinski could’ve used an anchor during Jackson’s first lesson from him. Jackson had never seen anything like that from him. Sure, Stilinski had grown some balls since werewolves started showing up in Beacon Hills, but he was still a relatively non-confrontational, spastic nerd at the end of the day. Jackson had never seen Stilinski truly _furious_ until the previous night.

Stilinski was human (as the mantra indicated), and yet he was utterly unafraid of Jackson. Maybe he was just used to having his life threatened by werewolves (thanks to Derek) and other monsters (thanks to the Kanima), but it was still impressive. Jackson had heard his pulse racing, but more from exertion and anger than fear. Even a few months ago Jackson would’ve concluded that it must be idiocy that made Stilinski so reckless. Now he wondered if it was _bravery_.

Jackson ran his hand over the place on his stomach where Stilinski had hit him the most. There wasn’t any sign of injury, of course. Jackson brought his fingers to his nose and inhaled the faint scent of the sweat that had been on Stilinski’s knuckles. Fury smelled _sour_.

He felt that unwelcome twinge of guilt in his gut again as he remembered the sound of Stilinski’s voice: _I hate you. I_ hate _you._

 _Stiles is human_. And Jackson didn’t want him to be. He didn’t want him to be more complicated. God knew Jackson’s life was complicated enough as it was. It was bad enough to be _physically attracted_ to Stilinski’s scent without becoming interested in his character complexity or some shit. Without _caring_ that Stilinski apparently hated him so much.

Why should he care? There was absolutely no fucking reason to care.

Jackson rolled over in bed, briefly considering pretending he was sick so he wouldn’t have to go to the loft and face the pack. He was in no mood to kiss Derek’s ass and be the good little beta today. Then he remembered that he was a werewolf, and that werewolves didn’t get sick. It was a surprisingly depressing thought.

His head had landed between his two pillows. Jackson reached to pull the other pillow under his head, and his fingers found the shirt he’d been wearing when he’d first gone to check on Stilinski. The scent was still strong.

Jackson didn’t have the energy to fight it, didn’t have the will to analyze it anymore. He was so fucking tired of trying to have control over anything in his life, especially since it obviously wasn’t working. Letting instinct win would be easy. It would feel good. So he pulled the shirt up onto the pillow and pressed his face into it.

Five more minutes. Then he’d get up. Just five more minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my beta [Ismene_Jane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ismene_Jane) and pre-post reader [AradiaFirehawk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AradiaFirehawk), and thanks to you for reading! I've already had some great response to the fic and I'm very excited to keep it going :)


	3. Hostility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER THREE: HOSTILITY

STILES

Sunday was blessedly Jackson-free. Stiles and Scott gamed until Stiles' hands couldn’t take it anymore and then he watched Scott play single-player. If possible, his knuckles hurt even more than on Saturday. Scott had also helped Stiles explain away the bruising by claiming it was related to a lacrosse practice mishap. Luckily Stiles' dad had mistaken Stiles' nervousness about the flimsy lie as self-consciousness about lacrosse and hadn’t questioned it further.

“Heads-up, Jackson is on Stiles Watch tonight,” Scott chose to tell Stiles right before dinnertime. “Sorry.”

“What!” said Stiles. “Why? I know for a fact that Allison is hanging out with Lydia tonight!”

Scott laughed. “Your knowledge of Lydia’s schedule is borderline creepy, dude.”

“Hey, I’m just watching out for he--Don’t change the subject!”

“Derek _requested_ it.” Scott rolled his eyes. “I guess since Jackson doesn’t live with the pack he gets nervous if his beta has too much time on his hands.”

“Why do Derek’s problems always become my problems?” Stiles grumbled.

“Because Derek’s problems are my problems, and my problems are your problems,” said Scott. “That’s what friends are for!”

Stiles crossed his arms over his chest. “Yeah, well, you can tell my _friend_ Derek that _he_ owes me a pizza this time.”

“Okay,” said Scott with a chuckle.

“And cheesy bread!”

“I’ll tell him.” Scott clapped his hand on Stiles' shoulder. “I’m gonna head out now, though. I’ve got some homework due tomorrow I haven’t done yet.”

“Fine, leave me,” said Stiles melodramatically. “But when I end up in therapy for abandonment issues in ten years, you’re footing the bill.”

* * *

JACKSON

“What’s with the baseball bat?”

“Takin’ it to the next level,” said Stilinski. They were facing each other in a space Stilinski had helpfully cleared on his cluttered bedroom floor. “Plus I need my hands to heal.”

Jackson snorted. “I’ll bet you do.”

“Is that a masturbation reference? Because if so, you’re right: it does take both hands.” Stilinski winked. Jackson gave him a look of disgust, which got a laugh from Stilinski.

“Are we doing this or what?” snapped Jackson.

“With pleasure,” said Stilinski. And then the baseball bat was swinging toward Jackson’s ribs. He caught it in his hand automatically.

“Not supposed to fight back, remember?” scolded Stilinski.

Jackson rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”

Stilinski landed a few decent blows with the bat to Jackson’s ribs. The bat was aluminum, and it definitely hurt more than Stilinski’s fists. The wolf inside Jackson was already beginning to stir after four hits.

“I can see why you picked lacrosse,” said Jackson between swings. “You’d suck even worse at baseball.”

“Shut up,” said Stilinski calmly. He was concentrating very hard on swinging the bat. There was no rage this time, no rant about what a dick Jackson was. Just a grunt of exertion every now and then as he began throwing more force behind the swings. He was doing his best to hurt Jackson as much as possible, but there wasn’t any emotion behind it.

Silence, it turned out, was bad for containing the wolf. Without Stilinski’s voice to listen to or guilt to focus on, all Jackson could do was try (in vain) to find his anchor while he was hyper aware of Stilinski’s scent. Each successive hit with the bat stung a little more. The bruises didn’t heal completely between swings and they started to compound. The wolf was _not_ happy.

Another few hits and Jackson’s eyes shifted. Stilinski looked wary, but didn’t stop. One, two, three more. Now Jackson’s teeth were sharpening. When Stilinski tried to land another blow, Jackson grabbed the middle of the bat and ripped it out of his hands. It clattered to the floor several feet away.

Stilinski’s eyes widened in alarm. He took a step back from Jackson, holding his hands out in front of him as a sign that he was no threat.

“Jackson,” he warned. “Remember the mantra.”

Jackson snarled. He could feel his teeth sharpening completely and his claws growing to their full length. His hair and his ears were starting to change as well.

“ _Jackson_ ,” Stiles said more forcefully.

The wolf was fighting to break free. Jackson growled and snapped his teeth, advancing on Stilinski. He wanted to bite, to claw, to tear into his attacker.

“Jackson!” Stilinski yelled at him. Maybe it was the authoritative tone of his voice or the fact that he was still somehow not afraid of Jackson, but Jackson immediately stilled. The glowing of his eyes went out so fast he had to blink a few times before Stilinski’s face came properly into focus again.

“ _Stop_ ,” Stilinski commanded. His voice wasn’t as loud now, but still forceful. Jackson took a step back. He felt his hair, claws, and teeth return to normal.

“You are _not_ going to bite me. _Ever_ ,” said Stilinski in a firm, even voice. “You’re not an alpha. You bite me, I don’t turn. I probably just die. I die, Derek and Scott rip you into little tiny pieces.” Stilinski refused to break eye contact with Jackson. “So you’re going to do _exactly_ what I tell you.”

For a few breaths neither of them moved or said anything, eyes still locked. Stilinski was drawn up to his full height--Wait, when had he gotten taller than Jackson?--and was staring Jackson down, pulse and breathing shockingly calm.

Then, inexplicably and against his conscious will, Jackson lowered his eyes and _bared his throat_ to Stilinski.

If it was possible, Stilinski looked even more shocked than Jackson felt once he realized what he’d just done.

“Did you just--?” Stilinski cut himself off with an expression of disbelief.

Jackson straightened up and looked away, embarrassed and confused about the fact that he’d just _submitted_ to Stilinski. Stilinski, who wasn’t even a werewolf, let alone an alpha, and certainly not Jackson’s alpha. Just a scrawny geek of a human who Jackson’s wolf had decided to obey.

Jackson couldn’t stay there. Couldn’t bear to look at Stilinski and didn’t want to smell him anymore. So he left as quickly as he could, without another word, dropped by the loft to check in, and went home to take a shower twice as long as usual.

The shirt and the pillow he kept it under were thrown to the other side of the room and he spent two hours tossing and turning before he fell asleep.

* * *

STILES

As soon as Jackson left, Stiles practically collapsed onto his bed. His head was spinning. It was impossible that _that_ had just happened. Stiles must’ve misunderstood the gesture. But no, Stiles had been around Derek’s pack long enough to know how the alpha-beta dynamic worked. He’d seen the way Isaac sometimes cowered when Derek was angry with him. He knew what it meant for a wolf to bare its throat. Jackson’s own reaction when he’d realized what he’d done was evidence enough of what it meant anyway.

 _Submission_. Jackson had _submitted_ to Stiles. It made absolutely no sense. Stiles wasn’t an alpha. Stiles wasn’t even a werewolf, and had no plans to be one. Even by human standards, Stiles wasn’t the kind of guy that a guy like Jackson would ever show weakness to. This was quite possibly the most insane thing to happen in the constant barrage of insane things that had happened since he and Scott had first found half of Derek’s sister’s body in the woods.

It was also the biggest rush Stiles had ever felt. A werewolf--and not just any werewolf: ex-Kanima lacrosse star and president of the Stiles Sucks Society, _Jackson Whittemore_ \--had _submitted_ to him. Stiles had never felt so powerful. He’d been near the bottom of the social pecking order since before the social pecking order had started to matter, and suddenly the guy at the top had basically bowed before him. For the first time, Stiles really understood why top dogs liked being top dogs so much. It felt _good_.

Jackson was probably furious with himself right now. The thought made Stiles smile. He remembered the satisfying _thwack_ of his baseball bat against Jackson’s ribs and his smile turned into a grin. Then he thought about the look in Jackson’s eyes right before he’d bared his throat. An echo of the shiver he’d felt when Jackson had run his fingers through Stiles' hair to get his scent coursed through him.

“Interesting,” Stiles murmured to himself.

He spent the next two hours staring at the ceiling and chewing on a pen, mulling over this very unexpected turn of events. He fell asleep in his clothes and dreamed of glowing blue eyes.

* * *

JACKSON

Jackson practically begged Derek for a reprieve from checking on Stiles. He cited the fact that Danny had just come back from a summer trip and would be suspicious if Jackson didn’t hang out with him, and since that was technically true, the justification didn’t come off as a lie to Derek. After checking with McCall about his schedule, Derek gave Jackson three days off.

“But I still want you to check in with me once a day,” ordered Derek.

Jackson nodded his head in obedience. Something twinged deep within the animal part of him, though. Still no words of approval or encouragement from his alpha. Just commands. How long was Jackson’s undefined probation going to last? What more did he have to do to prove himself, to be a real part of the pack?

Jackson spent his three days of freedom hanging out with Danny, as promised. He steered every thought and conversation remotely related to Stilinski in a different direction as soon as possible. And, most importantly, he finally washed that fucking shirt.

* * *

STILES

For once, Stiles and Jackson were having a civilized visit. Jackson was sitting in Stiles' desk chair, dicking around on his unreasonably expensive phone, and Stiles was sitting on his bed, doodling in a notebook while being far too conscious of Jackson’s presence to concentrate on anything. They’d made a mutual decision to lay off on the control lessons, at least until another werewolf was on hand; Stiles had been able to stop Jackson last time-- _damn_ , that was hot--but just barely.

This was something of a disappointment to Stiles. Of course he wasn’t thrilled about taking the risk of Jackson accidentally tearing his throat out with his wolfy teeth, but he was itching for another opportunity to get Jackson to submit to him. Maybe it had been a fluke, but Stiles would’ve given a lot for the chance of a repeat.

Stiles looked over at Jackson in what he hoped was a relatively covert manner. Maybe if he got a glance at Jackson’s face he could more clearly remember his expression when he’d submitted to Stiles...

Aaand Jackson’s eyes were glowing.

“What’s got your tail in a trap, wolfboy?” asked Stiles. “Game of Angry Birds get you angry, too? Is somebody being an asshole on the Internet?”

“What?” Jackson looked up at Stiles in irritation, and yeah, his eyes were _definitely_ glowing.

“Your eyes,” said Stiles.

Jackson blinked a few times, clearly confused. He put his phone back in his pocket and rubbed his eyes. When he looked back up they were ocean-after-a-storm blue again.

“Okay, I am doing literally nothing right now, and you’re wolfing out. Have I just ended up training you to associate me with pain?” Stiles smirked. “Do you find me threatening?”

Jackson snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Seriously, what’s up?”

“Nothing,” Jackson snapped.

Stiles sat up and turned to face him. “Yeaaah, when someone says nothing’s wrong, it means the opposite.”

Jackson glowered at him.

“Fine,” said Stiles. “Have a sulk, get my patented fragrance all over you, and say hi to Sourwolf for me.”

A growl rumbled in Jackson’s throat, low and dangerous. His eyes flashed glowy blue again.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Touch-y! Okay, sorry. Forget I said anything.”

Jackson got up and advanced on Stiles, and before Stiles knew it his pens and notebook had gone flying and he was backed up against the nearest wall. (Seriously, what was it with werewolves and getting people up against walls, anyway?)

“Hey, Jackson?” said Stiles. “Remember the mantra? How I’m all delicate and fragile and easily eviscerated?”

Jackson growled again, far too close to Stiles' face for comfort. Sure, Stiles was pretty sure he’d been authoritative enough last time that Jackson wouldn’t try to bite him, but that didn’t guarantee complete safety. And his baseball bat was out of reach. _Spectacular_.

“Seriously, dude,” said Stiles more firmly. “Back off.”

Jackson didn’t move closer, but he also didn’t move away. He just stood there, growly, glowy-blue-eyed face (thank God there weren’t pointy teeth or claws yet) a few inches from Stiles'. Jackson was so angry he was shaking. But… no. No, he didn’t look angry. He didn’t even look violent. He looked… _frustrated_.

Stiles frowned. “Are you okay?”

“I... I can’t.” Yeah, he _sounded_ frustrated now, too.

“Can’t what?”

“I can’t _think_ ,” Jackson growled. “You smell too fucking good.”

...What?

“Wait, wha--?”

And then Jackson’s mouth was on Stiles', their lips pressed firmly together. Stiles was so stunned he couldn’t react at first, either to fight the kiss or to accept it. But then the tip of Jackson’s tongue was demanding entrance into Stiles' mouth and a ridiculous, not at all manly moan escaped Stiles right as he gave in.

Stiles hadn’t had a significant kiss with a girl by this point, let alone a guy, but he was a teenage boy and he had impulses and it was difficult to care about anything except satisfying them when he had the chance. So what if it was Jackson? Kissing was awesome. This was a good thing. This was a Very Good Thing.

It was maybe a thirty seconds into the impromptu makeout session when Stiles' dominant sided started to wake up. The kiss was definitely enjoyable so far (Understatement of the Year), but Stiles couldn’t help but feel like Jackson had him at a disadvantage. He didn’t like being at a disadvantage. It shouldn’t matter how many people Jackson had kissed compared with Stiles; Stiles was supposed to be in charge. If anyone was gonna be kissing anyone around here, he was the one who’d be doing the kissing. So he tore his mouth away from Jackson’s.

“ _No_ ,” Stiles commanded.

Jackson froze almost immediately. _Hell yeah_. Stiles seized the opportunity and shoved Jackson’s shoulder until they sort of flipped over (not as gracefully as Stiles would’ve liked) and Stiles was the one pinning Jackson to the wall. Of course, Jackson was so much stronger than Stiles that the very idea that Stiles actually had him _pinned_ was laughable, but Jackson wasn’t fighting back. He stood there expectantly, fingers clutching at Stiles' shirt like he wanted to make a move, but didn’t dare. And _fuck_ , that was hot.

Stiles surged forward and kissed Jackson. It was sloppy and unpracticed but Stiles hoped that what he lacked in finesse he’d make up for in enthusiasm. Thankfully, Jackson was great at leading while following, and gave Stiles clear enough responses to teach him what he was doing right and wrong. Stiles prided himself on being a fast learner, and in any case Jackson wasn’t complaining. He was hard against Stiles' hip, and if that wasn’t an ego boost then Stiles didn’t know what was. Stiles ground his hips forward into Jackson’s as encouragement. He had no specific idea of what he wanted to do with Jackson, but going with the flow seemed like the best option at the moment.

Unfortunately, the contact was just overtly sexual enough that it scared Jackson out of his submissive stupor. His eyes shot open and his palm moved to Stiles' chest to push him away as gently as a werewolf could probably manage. Stiles was disappointed, but no meant no, even when the word wasn’t spoken and _especially_ when the other person could kill you with his pinky finger. Stiles stepped back and let Jackson go without a fight.

Neither said anything for several awkward minutes. Jackson paced by the window, avoiding Stiles' eyes and taking slow, calming breaths, while Stiles watched him. Stiles was still seriously turned on, and the strange alpha-esque dominant part of his very human self was itching to kiss, to touch, to command. He was drunk on the power of it and he didn’t want it to stop.

Finally, Jackson broke the silence.

“Don’t tell Derek.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows in surprise. The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. Jackson turned toward him, looking almost panicked.

“I need to be in his pack,” said Jackson urgently.

Stiles nodded. “I know.”

“Swear,” Jackson insisted.

“I won’t tell anybody. I swear.” Stiles smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. “Not like anybody would believe me anyway, right?”

And normally Jackson definitely would’ve had a snappy, no doubt highly insulting comeback for that. But instead he said nothing, and before Stiles could close the space between them again, he’d gone out the window.

Stiles closed the window and sighed deeply.

“Yeah…” he said to himself with a giddy grin. “ _Definitely_ no one would believe me.”

* * *

JACKSON

Stupid. Stupid and wonderful and stupid but so fucking _hot_ and stupid, stupid, _stupid_. Jackson’s heart was racing. He felt like he was covered in Stilinski's scent and he could still taste him in his mouth and on his lips and his wolf was screaming at him to run back to Stilinski’s room and do whatever Stilinski wanted. Only a tiny sliver of pride and a tiny sliver of sense kept him from following his wolf’s orders.

Jackson was pacing back and forth in his bedroom with his hands clasped behind his head, mind working furiously. Kissing had never affected Jackson like that before. He’d gotten _hard_ for Chrissakes. Guys who’d been having sex for as long as Jackson had did not get hard from _kissing_ , especially if they’d never been interested in the gender of the person they were kissing and they kind of hated the person anyway. What the _fuck_ was going on here?

He was supposed to be at the loft now, showing Derek through scent that Stilinski was fine so he could get permission to go home. He was directly disobeying his alpha. But Jackson smelled _too much_ like Stilinski now. He smelled like _aroused_ Stilinski, and that would be impossible to explain.

There was only one way out, and Derek wasn’t going to be happy with him. He picked up his phone and started typing.

* * *

DEREK

The text came in about ten minutes before Jackson was supposed to stop by.

Jackson: Mom called when I was on my way over. going to get grounded if i don’t go straight home

Derek was immediately suspicious. Texting was a good workaround for someone who wanted to lie to a werewolf. Derek might have a hard time hearing someone’s heartbeat over the phone, but he could usually tell if their tone of voice was off. Plus teenagers were pretty much inherently deceptive. He sighed and flipped through his contacts list.

Derek: Jackson says he stopped by. true?  
Stiles: Yeah he left like 10 mins ago  
Derek: K

Well, if it was a lie, Stiles was in on it, too. The question was whether or not it was harmless. Derek had been trying to keep Jackson in line but also at arm’s length, so that Jackson was under his control as a beta but not directly involved in trying to rescue Boyd and Erica. It was a delicate balance to strike. Things would have been much easier for everyone if Jackson had stayed in London where he’d be safe and Derek wouldn’t have to deal with him. Since he’d come back, though, Derek had realized that another beta’s strength would be a huge help when it came to fighting off the alpha pack. As much as he hated to admit it, he needed Jackson.

After a few moments of indecision, Derek decided to let it go this time. As long as Jackson was checking on Stiles like Derek had told him, it probably wasn’t a big deal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my beta [Ismene_Jane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ismene_Jane) and pre-post reader [AradiaFirehawk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AradiaFirehawk), and thanks to you for reading! I'm already overwhelmed by all of the positive responses to the fic and I hope people will continue to enjoy it as it moves forward :)


	4. Authority

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER FOUR: AUTHORITY

STILES

Stiles was giddy for the next two days, during which time Scott was the werewolf who checked on him, not Jackson. This was a source of immense conflict for Stiles, because as much as he loved Scott and as much as he hated Jackson, kissing was objectively awesome. Being in control of kissing was even better. Being in control in general was pretty great, too. Bottom line, Stiles wanted a repeat of the other night.

He kept wondering if it should’ve mattered more to him that the short makeout session had been with a guy. At the very least it should’ve mattered that it was _Jackson_ , shouldn’t it? Your first significant kiss should preferably be with a person you at least _liked_ , right? Stiles was surprised to find upon reflection that he hadn’t actually given much thought to his own sexuality before. Stiles' sexuality was, well, _Lydia_. It always had been. Sure, he watched (a lot of) porn and found the occasional celebrity attractive like any healthy teenager did, but when he thought about kissing or fantasized about sex, it had always been with Lydia.

Oh, God. _Lydia_. Stiles had kissed Lydia’s ex-boyfriend, who she was clearly still deeply in love with. What the hell was wrong with him? Had that really happened? Was this really his life? Stiles should’ve felt guilty. He was pretty damned sure he should’ve felt guilty. He should’ve felt confused and frustrated and conflicted and maybe even angry and/or disgusted. But he just... didn’t. There wasn’t room inside him for more than one feeling right now. All Stiles felt was _want_.

He wanted more kissing. He wanted to be in charge. He wanted power over someone who was in reality much more powerful than he was. He wanted to stare down glowing blue eyes and slide his tongue over teeth he’d forbidden from growing sharp. He wanted _Jackson_.

Stiles couldn’t do anything about guilt or confusion or frustration, inner conflict, anger, or disgust. But he could do something about _want_.

At this point, what did he have to lose?

* * *

JACKSON

Jackson couldn’t see Stiles--yes, _Stiles_ , because there came a point in knowing someone that calling them by their last name started to feel weird, and apparently for Jackson that point was when he had his tongue in their mouth--through the window, but he could hear his heartbeat and breathing. He had no idea what to expect when he went into Stiles' room. Jackson had had two days to consider what had happened, and he wasn’t sure he was any clearer on how he felt about it than he’d been right after he’d left last time.

After agonizing over it, alternately trying to forget the kiss had happened and trying to remember every detail of it, Jackson had come to the conclusion that pretending he had a say in the matter was pointless. He had to check on Stiles because Derek had told him to, and the second he smelled Stiles' scent he was probably going to lose his ability to make smart decisions anyway. Whatever happened next would be beyond his control.

He’d only just shut the window behind him when Stiles grabbed his wrist and tugged so he could use the momentum to get Jackson against the wall. Only Stiles' scent kept Jackson from retaliating to the attack on instinct. He let Stiles ‘pin’ him there without thinking about it.

“I’m here,” Stiles said lowly before nipping at Jackson’s lower lip. “I’m fine.” Another nip. “And you’re not leaving till I say.”

Stiles initiated a real kiss then, and Jackson eagerly returned it. Jackson had discovered last time that he really, _really_ enjoyed kissing Stiles. Stiles was an inexperienced kisser, but he was perceptive and adaptive, and he took pressure off of Jackson by taking the lead. Plus he tasted just as good as he smelled. It didn’t matter that he was being kissed by a guy or that the guy was Stiles Stilinski. This was new and different and fun and _hot_.

When they broke apart for breath, Jackson’s face automatically fell to the crook of Stiles' neck. As soon as he inhaled he felt Stiles' scent fogging his brain. Jackson wasn’t used to not having control when making out. He had his hands lamely resting on Stiles' hips because he didn’t know where else to put them. If Stiles were a girl then her chest was the obvious answer, but Stiles wasn’t a girl, and Jackson wasn’t ready to touch anything below the belt. It had been awkward enough that he’d obviously gotten hard last time Stiles had kissed him, and the way things were going it would probably happen again.

Jackson was preoccupied with sliding his teeth along Stiles' jaw when he felt his head being pulled back. Stiles had gotten ahold of his hair and was tugging insistently. It didn’t _hurt_ , exactly, but it definitely got his attention. Stiles kept pulling until Jackson tilted his head to the side, and then Stiles' mouth was on his neck and his free hand was holding Jackson’s shoulder to make sure he didn’t move and it was all Jackson could do to clutch feebly at Stiles' shirt, because Jackson was strong enough to easily escape but pretending that Stiles was stronger felt _good_.

It became clear pretty quickly that Stiles was trying to give Jackson the Hickey to End All Hickies. He was attacking the skin of Jackson’s neck with his lips and teeth and tongue. Hot shivers were coursing through Jackson and yeah he was definitely hard now and there was no way Stiles wasn’t going to notice.

Too soon, Stiles pulled back to admire his handiwork. Jackson watched as Stiles grinned at what was probably a pretty epic bruise, only to frown suddenly as the inevitable happened: the hickey healed.

“No fair,” said Stiles.

“Probably for the best,” said Jackson as a reminder that it would be difficult to hide something like that from Derek, even with one of Lahey’s ridiculous scarves. Still, the thought of being marked by Stiles like that was appealing in a way that Jackson blamed entirely on his inner wolf.

“I don’t want to think about Derek right now,” said Stiles, and yanked at Jackson’s hair again so that he had Jackson’s full attention. “I want… I _want_.” There was a note of frustration in his voice, and when he kissed Jackson again there was more force, more desperation behind it. Of course he _wanted_ , Jackson mused in the back of his mind. _Wanting_ was all that seventeen-year-old boys did. But he wanted _Jackson_. Stiles _wanted_ Jackson.

Jackson was used to people wanting him. Hell, his self-image depended on people either wanting him or wanting to _be_ him. But this was different. Jackson was hyperaware of Stiles' _want_ , could smell it in his scent (Stiles smelled even better when he was turned on), feel it in the kissing-biting-grabbing of Stiles' mouth and hands, and Jackson definitely wasn’t the only one with a hard-on now and that caused an answering surge of _want_ in Jackson.

The _want_ in Jackson was different, too, somehow. With Lydia and other girls, he’d wanted to lead, conquer, claim. With Stiles… With Stiles Jackson wanted to be led. Conquered. _Claimed_. Not like a girl, though. Jackson wasn’t a girl. Like… like a wolf. Submission wasn’t weakness for a wolf. A wolf could submit to its alpha and still be fierce.

“God, Jackson,” Stiles was muttering somewhere near Jackson’s ear between bites and licks and kisses along his neck and jaw. “You taste good. You smell, you feel… You’re just... _good_.” He said variations of this over and over again (because he was Stiles Can’t-Shut-His-Fucking-Mouth-to-Save-His-Fucking-Life Stilinski) in distracted half-formed sentences against Jackson’s skin.

Jackson was a beta. He wanted to submit. Wanted to _be_ wanted, in whatever way he could. Derek hardly acted like he cared if Jackson lived or died, never praised Jackson for doing a good job. And Jackson wanted it so badly. Wanted approval. Wanted affirmation. The wolf in him was so desperate to please an alpha, and the human part of him was desperate to be praised.

“So good,” murmured Stiles against Jackson’s neck. Good, Jackson was good. A good wolf. A good beta.

Stiles Stilinski, of all people. _Stiles_ was the person who gave Jackson what he wanted. Stiles the human was a better alpha than werewolf-from-birth Derek Hale.

When Stiles couldn’t stay standing anymore they slid to the floor and made out there instead, sitting, then lying down. Stiles' fidgeting hands couldn’t stop moving. They slid all over Jackson’s chest, back, and sides, fingers sometimes clutching at Jackson’s hair or holding his head at the angle Stiles wanted for kissing his mouth or getting at his neck. Jackson could think of very few times where he’d been happier to be a werewolf than when Stiles was sinking his blunt teeth into Jackson’s skin, determinedly trying to leave marks that would quickly fade.

Jackson tried to focus very intently on Stiles' mouth and hands because otherwise he’d be too aware of the fact that Stiles was not-so-subtly rubbing his obvious erection against Jackson’s thigh through their jeans. Considering how conscious Stiles seemed to be of not moving his hands lower than Jackson’s bellybutton--hell, he didn’t even have them under Jackson’s shirt--the action was probably mostly involuntary. Jackson would never admit it aloud, but he empathized completely. It was taking a lot of effort not to say to hell with it and angle his hips toward Stiles' and--

Fuck, what time was it?

“Stiles,” said Jackson, trying to pull himself free from the metaphorical pool of pheromones he was in danger of drowning in.

Stiles was too preoccupied with licking along the shell of Jackson’s ear to respond.

“ _Stiles_ ,” Jackson repeated more insistently. He got a hand between their chests and nudged Stiles away a bit.

“Hmn?” said Stiles eloquently.

“I have to check in with Derek,” said Jackson

Stiles groaned in disappointment. “You can’t go,” he insisted. “You’re too much _fun_.”

Jackson ignored Stiles' protests as he climbed to his feet. He sniffed his own shirt experimentally. “God, I reek of you.”

“You said you liked my smell,” said Stiles.

“Derek won’t.”

Stiles made an annoyed sound in response to that.

Jackson sighed deeply. “Give me one of your shirts. One you’ve worn.”

“What--One of my plaid flannel nightmares?” Stiles smirked when Jackson rolled his eyes.

“Come on, I’m late.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Stiles found a suitably smelly shirt for Jackson and handed it over.

“Take a shower before you’re around another werewolf again,” warned Jackson as he opened the window. “You smell like me.”

Jackson’s last glimpse of Stiles was him wearing a cocky smirk on his kiss-bruised lips. He rushed home, showered as quickly as possible to wash Stiles' scent away, and changed into clean clothes that he then rubbed Stiles' dirty shirt all over. If Derek suspected anything, he didn’t let on.

Jackson slept using Stiles' hideous shirt as a pillow.

* * *

STILES

After making out with Jackson a few more times Stiles abandoned any preamble to getting him within kissing distance. As far as he was concerned, the second Jackson stepped into Stiles' territory, Stiles got to decide what to do with him. Stiles' decision was pretty much the same every time: start kissing Jackson as soon as possible and see how far it went before Jackson wanted to stop or they ran out of time. Stiles never wanted to stop; his impulse around Jackson was to leap before he looked. Instant gratification now, consequences later.

They weren’t even braced against a wall this time, just standing by the window. Stiles had only paused to shut the curtains after Jackson came in before pulling him in for a kiss. One of his hands was gripping Jackson’s hair while the fingers on his other hand were hooked in one of Jackson’s front pockets, keeping him close. Jackson was clutching at Stiles' shirt with both hands. (Stiles was wearing his already-has-wolf-claw-cuts-in-it shirt as a precaution and also because it was kind of hot.)

For the first time, Stiles got his hands under Jackson’s shirt without Jackson shying away, and slid his palms over the smooth skin of his back. He quickly became frustrated with how the stupid shirt hindered _touching_ and _seeing_ , and when he tugged the hem up insistently Jackson helped Stiles take it off. After Stiles had flung the shirt across the room he spent a few moments blatantly staring at Jackson’s bare chest. It was sort of a silly thing to do, really. After all, it wasn’t like he’d never seen Jackson with his shirt off before. Apart from changing in the locker room, there was also Jackson swimming and Jackson running on the track and Jackson just generally showing off that he looked damned good without a shirt.

But this was different. This was shirt removal with _intent_. This was Jackson and Stiles alone with that spark of attraction between them that people have to describe as electricity because there isn’t a better word for it. Stiles was so psyched about the whole thing he almost forgot to be self-conscious when Jackson pulled Stiles' shirt over his head and let it fall to the floor. Almost.

Again, it wasn’t like Jackson had never seen Stiles with his shirt off. The difference was that Stiles didn’t have much more muscle than was absolutely necessary to get through Lacrosse practice. He knew he wasn’t out of shape, but he’d never been the guy that girls (or guys) expressed much interest in seeing shirtless. Couple that with the fact that Stiles was pretty damned sure he was the only guy Jackson had ever fooled around with and he didn’t feel like Jackson would be all that impressed.

Jackson could clearly sense Stiles' self-consciousness because he quirked an eyebrow at him in confusion. Stiles fixed his eyes on his feet while he tried to summon his confidence back. Then he felt warm hands on his chest, and Jackson was nudging Stiles' chin up so he could get to his neck. Teeth slid along Stiles' collarbone. He shivered.

“Don’t sell yourself short, Stilinski.” This was apparently Jackson’s very Jackson-like way of confessing that he liked Stiles with his shirt off just fine.

And _there_ was Stiles' confidence again. His fingers found Jackson’s belt (of _course_ Jackson would be wearing a belt) and unbuckled it, then unbuttoned the fly, pulled down the zipper. All the while Jackson was running his hands over Stiles' chest and back, keeping his mouth busy worrying a bruise into Stiles' (modest) left pectoral muscle with his teeth.

The little sound of surprised pleasure that escaped Jackson when Stiles slipped his hand into Jackson’s jeans sent a thrill through Stiles' stomach. Stiles could feel through Jackson’s no-doubt ridiculously expensive boxer briefs that he was hard as a fucking rock, and that caused an even more intense stomach thrill. Sure, Stiles had never touched another guy’s cock before (He hadn’t even gotten to touch the girl equivalent) and yeah, it was kind of weird, but it was also _unbelievably hot_. Like, pulse-racing, weak-in-the-knees, seriously-how-can-baggy-jeans-be-so-tight _hot_.

When Stiles began rubbing his palm along Jackson’s cock through the fabric, Jackson’s mouth found Stiles' neck again. Soon his forehead was resting on Stiles' shoulder. His fingers hooked in the front belt loops of Stiles' jeans and he was making obscene little breathy sounds near Stiles' ear.

“ _Fuck_ , you smell good when you’re turned on,” whispered Jackson between two of the aforementioned breathy sounds, as if there were anyone who might hear that admission except Stiles. He was rocking his hips into Stiles' hand now.

“That might be the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” said Stiles. His tone was amused, but Jackson talking like that was really not helping the seriously-how-can-baggy-jeans-be-so-tight situation.

Come to think of it, Jackson’s jeans were too tight, too. Stiles set about rectifying the problem by pulling them down enough that he didn’t have to reach _in_ anymore. And he figured, fuck it, while he was at it he might as well do away with the ridiculously expensive boxer briefs as well. He was so focused on moving moment-to-moment that it was almost a surprise to find that he had his hand wrapped around Jackson’s very, very hard cock, skin-to-skin.

All Stiles had to go on in terms of jacking another guy off was what he knew he liked when he did it to himself (and, okay, a _lot_ of porn), so he started slow, trying to gauge Jackson’s reactions. It was a little awkward since his arm was sort of turned around from where it normally would be. Yeah, that wasn’t gonna work. Stiles did some careful maneuvering so that he was behind Jackson, chest-to-back, and _fuck_ Jackson was pretty much naked now what with his jeans and underwear being down around his knees. If Jackson had noticed, he didn’t care. He seemed happy to let Stiles do whatever he wanted, and that fact was very, _very_ hot.

“Show me what feels good,” said Stiles against Jackson’s ear, and to make himself clearer he took Jackson’s right hand in his own and placed it on Jackson’s cock. Jackson began to move his hand, and Stiles moved his own with it until he felt like he’d figured out the right placement, pressure, and rhythm. Then he nudged Jackson’s hand away and took over. If the sounds coming from Jackson’s mouth were any indication, he was doing a decent job. Jackson’s fingers were gripping Stiles' jeans--“Do _not_ claw holes in my pants, wolfboy.”--and his head was lolling back on Stiles' shoulder.

Stiles got his free arm around Jackson’s waist to help hold him steady. This had the added benefit of bringing Stiles' hips flush with Jackson’s. He only resisted the temptation for about twenty seconds before he was not-so-subtly rocking his hips forward, then blatantly grinding his cock against Jackson’s ass through his Pac-Man boxers and jeans that had never felt so tight before. This got an insanely sexy groan out of Jackson, which in turn made Stiles increase the pace of both his hand and his hips. Stiles decided that he _liked_ having someone else’s cock in his hand. He liked the power of having control over someone else’s pleasure. This was _fun_. This was _hot_. This was fucking _intoxicating_.

And then Jackson’s body tensed up and he was coming all over his stomach and Stiles' hand and Stiles had to stop moving his hips because he flat-out _refused_ to come in his pants, even if making Jackson come was pretty much the biggest turn-on of his life. Jackson struggled to stay standing but Stiles helped hold him up. Their skin was sticky with sweat where Jackson’s back met Stiles' chest, and both of them shivered when Jackson pulled away.

Stiles, like the gentleman that he was, handed Jackson his shirt to clean up with. Soon Jackson had his pants back on and his belt buckled, and he was clearly trying not to look at how very obviously hard Stiles was. He was practically _radiating_ nervousness.

“It’s okay,” said Stiles. “You don’t have to.”

Jackson looked suspicious.

“I’m serious, dude.” Stiles retrieved Jackson’s shirt from the far corner of the room and handed it to him. “Go home, get cleaned up, get my not-sexed-up smell on you--You’ve still got my other shirt, right?--check in with Derek, and get some sleep.”

Jackson put his shirt back on and regarded Stiles uncertainly.

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” said Stiles. “Fuck off.” He couldn’t help smiling a bit when he said it.

“Okay,” said Jackson. “I’ll, uh, see you later.”

“Yep.” Stiles waved, and Jackson let himself out through the window, looking dazed.

Once he figured Jackson was far enough away that he couldn’t hear him anymore, Stiles flopped down on his bed with a sigh. Sure, it would’ve been awesome if Jackson had returned the favor and sure, it was going to take him like ten seconds to come now, but the image of making Jackson come? The memory of how he felt and smelled and sounded? That was the new crown jewel in Stiles' spank bank.

* * *

JACKSON

Jackson smelled even more like Stiles than ever. Stiles' sweat had dried on his back and his pheremones were all over Jackson’s skin and his clothes and it was enough to make Jackson’s head spin. He tossed the clothes in his laundry hamper and got into a very hot shower.

He scrubbed every inch of his skin at least three times over, trying unsuccessfully not to mentally relive the way Stiles' hand had felt around his cock, how much he’d enjoyed it (in spite of himself) when Stiles was grinding his cock against Jackson’s ass, the low, almost gravelly sound of Stiles' voice when he’d told Jackson to ‘show him what felt good.’

A hand job had no right to be that hot.

Aaand he needed to stop thinking about it by the time he got out of the shower or Derek was going to smell that he was getting turned on again.

Jackson dried off, got dressed, and braced himself to pick up Stiles' shirt, which seemed to be accusing him from its spot under his pillow. After a few seconds’ hesitation, he snatched it up and rubbed it on his own clothing, hands, and arms. He’d have to borrow a new one soon; scents started to fade after a few days.

He spent the entire drive to the loft cursing his supernatural sense of smell and trying to breathe through his mouth.

He spent the entire drive home breathing deeply through his nose and trying to decide if the feeling in his gut was apprehension or excitement that he would inevitably find himself alone with Stiles again soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the real smut begins! This fic is pretty smut-heavy on the front end. I'm assuming nobody has a problem with that? I swear there'll be like plot and stuff later. But also still some smut.
> 
> Special thanks to my beta [Ismene_Jane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ismene_Jane) and pre-post reader [AradiaFirehawk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AradiaFirehawk), and thanks to you for reading! You guys are amazing and the feedback I've been getting has really buoyed my spirits during a stressful time right now. You guys rule!


	5. Reciprocity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER FIVE: RECIPROCITY

STILES

Summer was becoming increasingly more interesting as it progressed. From the outside, it didn’t seem like much had changed. Scott was still going to summer school, working, and spending a ton of time with Allison. Lydia was distracting herself with a string of hot guys because she was still trying to pretend that she wasn’t in love with Jackson anymore. Derek, Peter, and Isaac lurked at the loft mostly (Stiles didn’t know what they were up to and he didn’t want to know). Jackson guarded Stiles when Derek told him to and checked in with Derek every day. Stiles hung out with whoever wanted to hang out when they had time for him.

The main difference now was that when Stiles' pulse sped up at the mention of Jackson, he had to hope that werewolves would interpret it as anger or annoyance rather than excitement or arousal. He spent a lot of time carefully avoiding conversations about Jackson, and thankfully Scott just figured Stiles didn’t want to talk about him because of Lydia. Stiles also now washed his clothes and sheets a lot more often and took more showers, especially when he knew Scott was coming over.

It had been about two weeks since Stiles had given Jackson that first hand job, and he’d done it a couple more times since then, but sometimes when he came over they still just made out. Jackson hadn’t touched Stiles yet. Well, he’d kissed him (a _lot_ ) and his hands had done a lot of exploring while Stiles' shirt was off, but nothing below the waist. Stiles wasn’t particularly bothered by this. He could think of at least half a dozen possible reasons why Jackson would be uncomfortable with it--1) Jackson hadn’t been with a dude before; 2) At least officially, Jackson was supposed to hate Stiles; 3) Jackson was paranoid about Derek finding out; 4) Jackson was just that selfish; 5) Jackson was too submissive to know where to start; 6) The thought hadn’t even occurred to Jackson--in the space of a few seconds.

Stiles didn’t care much, though, because when he was with Jackson, none of the shit that came with living in a constant state of mortal peril mattered. It didn’t matter that Scott was sometimes too busy for him, or that even after all he’d done for Lydia she’d still rather turn to other guys to ease her heartbreak instead of him. He had a secret to keep just for himself. He had his own kind of power. And that feeling? He was insane for even thinking it, but that feeling was a pretty decent substitute for a hand job.

Stiles had also made studying Jackson his new project. He was fascinated by how Jackson behaved with him. At first he’d figured Jackson’s willingness to let Stiles take control was just a beta thing or Jackson not knowing what to do with a guy, but patterns had started to emerge over time. Apart from the fact that fooling around with Jackson felt amazing, it was a great preoccupation for Stiles' ever-busy brain. There was a file in Stiles' head of Jackson’s responses to things Stiles said or did.

For example, Stiles had discovered that Jackson’s favorite word was ‘good.’ Stiles had (so far) been able to resist the temptation to use it in phrases like ‘Good boy’ or ‘Good dog’ because he was pretty sure Jackson would break his arm if he did, but Stiles always got a positive response when he made it clear that he approved of what Jackson was doing. Based on research, he couldn’t decide if it was a beta submission thing or a more human psychological one yet. Maybe both?

“Good,” Stiles would repeat when he was too overwhelmed by Jackson’s mouth on his neck (as an example) to come up with something more eloquent. “You’re _good_ , Jackson.”

Because he was. _God_ , he was good.

* * *

JACKSON

It was certainly the most surreal summer Jackson had ever had. Seriously, every time Jackson woke up in the morning his immediate instinct was to wonder if everything that had happened to him since March--the Kanima, becoming a werewolf, London, Stiles--had been a dream, and maybe it was time to get ready for school because Sophomore year wasn’t over yet. Turning into a giant lizard and being controlled by two different psychopaths was nightmarish, but making out with Stiles Stilinski (and getting the occasional hand job) on a regular basis was just downright _weird_.

Weird, but fucking amazing. Jackson couldn’t remember the last time _kissing_ had been such a turn-on. He couldn’t get enough of the way Stiles tasted and smelled and felt against him. Being with Stiles sometimes felt like being drunk: it was fun and exciting but somehow relaxing, too. Stiles made everything else go away so all Jackson had to do was be kissed and touched and praised, and he was allowed to do whatever he wanted to Stiles in return.

The only problem now was _doing_ what he wanted to do to Stiles. Because Jackson pretty much hadn’t done anything to Stiles at all except give him a lot of hardcore hickies and rub up against him a bit. Stiles did all the work, and Jackson was starting to feel a little guilty and a lot paranoid about it. If he didn’t start reciprocating, it was probably only a matter of time before Stiles got fed up and told him to fuck off. That’s what Jackson would do, after all. But the thought of trying to do anything to Stiles that Jackson couldn’t do to a girl was so daunting it was almost terrifying.

The logical solution would be to talk to Danny. As Jackson’s best friend and a guy who routinely slept with other guys, Danny was more than qualified to advise Jackson. Except that Jackson couldn’t tell Danny what he was doing with Stiles. Even if he swore Danny to secrecy, there were still too many unanswerable questions, including ones that had to do with the werewolf component of their attraction. Even without the werewolf stuff, how could Jackson explain something to Danny that he didn’t understand himself?

So Jackson kept making out with Stiles and enjoying the unfair amount of attention he was getting, hoping that he’d magically work up the guts to return the favor.

Right now they were sitting in the reading chair in the corner of Stiles' room. Well, Jackson was sitting in the chair, and Stiles was sitting on Jackson. He was straddling Jackson’s lap, clearly enjoying the height advantage the position gave him when it came to kissing Jackson’s lips and neck. Jackson liked it because it brought Stiles' hips flush with his and he could get under Stiles' shirt and worry bruises into his skin with his teeth. Jackson wasn’t allowed to leave marks anywhere near Stiles' neck, but when Jackson had made it clear how much he wanted to do it (mostly by trying to give Stiles hickies every time they made out and having to be forbidden from doing it), Stiles had relented and said anywhere a T-shirt would cover was okay.

Jackson was in the middle of creating a particularly impressive bruise a few inches below Stiles' collarbone when Stiles nudged his head up and moved off him. Jackson made a sound of protest before Stiles leaned back in and kissed his lips again, then his jaw, then his neck, and it took a few seconds for Jackson to realize that Stiles was pushing Jackson’s legs apart so he could kneel between them. _Oh_.

Stiles couldn’t hear Jackson’s pulse, of course, but he still seemed to notice when it spiked. He looked up and locked eyes with Jackson.

“I wanna try,” said Stiles.

It wasn’t really a question, but it wasn’t like there was a universe in which Jackson would say no anyway.

When Jackson nodded dumbly, Stiles made a sort of happy/excited sound and dropped his eyes to shamelessly stare at Jackson’s erection, which was very, very obvious through his jeans. He tensed up a bit under the scrutiny, nervous even though he’d easily gotten head dozens of times. Doing something new with Stiles always felt like a big deal.

In any other context, Jackson wouldn’t have tolerated the cocky smirk Stiles gave him as he unbuckled Jackson’s belt, undid his fly, and palmed Jackson’s cock through his underwear. People who gave Jackson orgasms were allowed certain indulgences.

Stiles pulled Jackson’s cock free and examined it for a few moments, apparently fascinated. Stiles had a way of always either being hopelessly distracted or intently focused, and it was still a little disconcerting (though flattering, in a way) to be the object of that focus. It wasn’t like Stiles had never seen Jackson’s cock before, but Jackson supposed that he’d never been that close to it.

When Stiles looked back up at Jackson, his pupils were so wide they were threatening to drown out the brown ringing them. The sight made Jackson’s stomach flutter.

“Tell me if I’m fucking this up,” said Stiles. “Or if you want me to stop.”

“Yeah,” said Jackson distractedly. “Okay.”

Stiles stuck his tongue out and slid it up the underside of Jackson’s cock, base to head. It was warm and wet and _fuck_ it had been too long since someone had done this to Jackson. Jackson’s sharp inhalation of breath prompted Stiles to repeat the action, and when Stiles dragged his pouty lower lip along Jackson’s cock, Jackson had to close his eyes because Stiles' face had no right to look that sexy to Jackson.

Then Stiles took the head of Jackson’s cock in his mouth and Jackson outright _groaned_. It was an undignified sound that made Jackson curse himself internally. Like he’d been when they’d first started kissing, Stiles was definitely unpracticed but he learned quickly. He started slow, trying out different tactics with his lips and tongue, careful about where his teeth were. Jackson couldn’t have kept quiet if he’d tried, but he figured not holding back would help Stiles figure out what he liked and didn’t.

Jackson couldn’t help it; he tangled his fingers in Stiles' hair and gripped it tight. Stiles made a noise that sounded pleased, though it was hard to tell with Jackson’s cock in his mouth. He used to do this with Lydia, but it felt so much different with the short, messy locks between his fingers instead of smooth, long waves. He needed to stop comparing Stiles to Lydia, for more reasons than one. The main one right now was that, unlike with Lydia, when Jackson tried to use the leverage to push Stiles' head down further, Stiles pulled away and gave Jackson a warning look.

“ _No_ ,” he said sternly.

A pang of primal guilt caused by his beta instinct not to disobey made Jackson drop his eyes from Stiles' unflinching gaze and duck his head in submission. The message was clear: Jackson would do well to remember that the person kneeling could still be the one in charge.

Satisfied that Jackson had learned his lesson, Stiles resumed the blow job with obvious enthusiasm. It wasn’t perfect, but it was pretty damned good for what Jackson knew was Stiles’ first try. Plus it wasn’t like Jackson could say he had more experience on that side of sucking cock. And the fact that it was Stiles… Somehow that made it hotter. (That was something Jackson vowed in that moment to _never_ tell Stiles, of course. _Ever_.)

Jackson let out a sound he’d refuse to admit was a whimper when Stiles pulled away. He made the mistake of glancing down at Stiles, who looked utterly wrecked in the best possible way. His eyes were lust-dark, hair hopelessly messy from Jackson clutching at it, parted lips pink and wet with saliva. Jackson groaned at the sight.

“You make the _best_ sounds,” said Stiles in a low, breathy sort of voice.

A shiver ran through Jackson at the comment that was half dirty talk, half praise.

“More?” asked Stiles.

Jackson licked his own dry lips and nodded emphatically, but Stiles gave him a disapproving look.

“ _More_?” Stiles repeated. Jackson understood now: he was supposed to answer.

“Yeah,” said Jackson hoarsely. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”

“Better,” said Stiles, and Jackson mentally thanked every deity potentially in existence that Stiles hadn’t made him beg for it. Jackson wasn’t sure his already fragile sense of pride would be able to overcome that.

Then Stiles’ mouth was back around Jackson’s cock and he was sucking it with a single-minded concentration only someone like Stiles was capable of. Jackson was only dimly aware that he was now making some pretty obscene sounds as he tried very hard not to rock his hips up for fear that Stiles would stop if he tried to take control.

When he tightened his grip on Stiles’ hair, Stiles groaned deep in his throat, and that was it for Jackson. He felt his eyes shift as he came, but managed to contain the wolf apart from that. Stiles continued sucking gently until most of the aftershocks had subsided, and then he swallowed the cum like that was the only logical option. Jackson was shocked. Lydia had always spit. It was the one thing lacking in her otherwise incredible blow jobs. Again, Stiles proved that enthusiasm could help make up for lack of experience.

Stiles looked very pleased with himself. Jackson wanted nothing more than to sit back in the chair and bask for a minute or two, but Stiles got hold of Jackson’s shirt and tugged him forward and then they were kissing. Jackson’s initial reaction was distaste. He’d never had any interest in tasting his own cum, and his suspicion that it wasn’t enjoyable was now confirmed by the lingering residue of it in Stiles' mouth.

But Stiles refused to let him escape the kiss, and that act of dominance made the experience almost appealing. An undeniable trend was emerging: what Stiles thought was hot, Jackson ended up thinking was hot, because all that mattered was what Stiles wanted. If Stiles was pleased, Jackson was pleased.

And fuck, if that really was the case, Jackson was already in way over his head.

There was a somewhat awkward silence between them after the kiss broke. Stiles let go of Jackson’s shirt and got his boxers and jeans all straightened out and zipped and buckled for him while Jackson worked on getting his breath and pulse back to normal. His face felt hot and the intensity of Stiles' lust-darkened eyes wasn’t helping. Jackson wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do next.

Then Stiles stood, and Jackson felt even more awkward. There was no way he could miss how hard Stiles was now that his hips were close to eye level. Should Jackson return the favor? It seemed like he was supposed to. But he only had a vague idea of how to go about it, and he was far more nervous about doing it than he’d ever admit to anyone.

“You don’t owe me anything,” said Stiles, breaking the silence.

Jackson looked up at Stiles, surprised. “What?”

“Dude, you look like you’re psyching yourself up to eat Brussels sprouts or something. Kind of a turn-off.”

Stiles was smiling. Why would he be _smiling_? Wasn’t he frustrated? He had every right to call Jackson out for being a selfish dick about this.

“I… ” Jackson was hopelessly confused. “What do you get out of this?”

“What do I--?” Stiles gaped at him. “What do I get out of this?”

Jackson shrugged awkwardly. “I just don’t get it.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Stiles bent down and braced his hands on the arms of the chair, caging Jackson in. “What do I _get_ out of this?”

Jackson inhaled sharply when Stiles got his fingers in Jackson’s hair and tugged, hard. He tilted his head to the side so Stiles could get at his neck, and then Stiles' teeth were pressing into his skin and he was creating a temporary hickey there.

“I get to do that,” said Stiles against Jackson’s neck. He tugged harder at Jackson’s hair and Jackson groaned.

“I get to hear that.” Stiles raised his head and bit Jackson’s lower lip. Jackson felt his eyes glow for a second.

“I get to see that.”

Jackson considered this. “So you don’t think I’m a selfish dick?”

“Oh, you’re totally a selfish dick,” said Stiles. “But not because of that.”

Jackson looked down at his hands self-consciously, torn. “It’s… It’s not like I don’t want to.”

“Well,” said Stiles, “if you want me to _make_ you do what you want sometime, I’m up for that.”

When Jackson realized what Stiles meant, the submissive part of him surged to the surface. All he could do was swallow nervously and nod his understanding.

“But if you don’t want that tonight, I’m gonna need you to leave now.” Stiles grinned wickedly at Jackson. “’Cause somebody’s gotta take care of the problem you caused.”

Jackson’s eyes flitted to the still obvious tent in Stiles' jeans and felt his cheeks grow hot again. Great. Now if Jackson wasn’t careful he was going to end up masturbating to the thought of Stiles masturbating to the thought of making him come.

Yeah, it was definitely time to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit more smut before I start moving into chapters that will roughly align with 3A plot in a few weeks. Unfortunately, they can't just hide out in Stiles' bedroom forever. Sigh.
> 
> Again, special thanks to my beta [Ismene_Jane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ismene_Jane) and pre-post reader [AradiaFirehawk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AradiaFirehawk), and thanks to you for reading! I can't stress enough how amazing the feedback has been and how much it means to me. I'm glad I post on Thursdays or Fridays because your feedback gives me a boost of energy at the end of the week. Thanks for encouraging me!


	6. Passivity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER SIX: PASSIVITY

STILES

Giving Jackson head was Stiles’ new favorite thing. It was pretty much all he could think about when he wasn’t actually doing it, and he was beginning to be disappointed on nights when Scott stopped by instead of Jackson. Stiles felt guilty about this, but if Scott noticed that Stiles was antsier and more fidgety than usual, he didn’t say anything. It was still awesome hanging out with his best friend, but it was really, _really_ hard to clear his head of Jackson-related thoughts, and totally uncomfortable to be thinking them around Scott. Stiles’ worst fear was getting turned on by a sexy Jackson-related thought by accident while Scott was there and Scott noticing it from the way Stiles smelled. Gross.

But yeah. Oral sex? Best thing _ever_.

“Feel better?” Stiles asked Jackson, who was sprawled out next to him on the floor, catching his breath. Stiles sat up so he could roll his neck, which was stiff from the awkward angle required for an on-the-floor blow job. (He wasn’t always thinking straight when it came to picking where in his room to go down on Jackson.) His neck popped twice.

“Mhmn,” mumbled Jackson. Stiles smiled inwardly. He licked his own chapped lips and swallowed a few times while he studied Jackson’s eyes-closed, blissed-out face. He was getting used to the taste of Jackson’s cum. Okay, that thought had probably just sent a shock wave rippling back through the space-time continuum and given Younger Stiles a migraine.

“Dude, we gotta talk about this hickie obsession of yours,” said Stiles, trying to keep the tone light. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, it feels fucking awesome when you’re doing it. But I think you’re running out of space.”

Stiles gestured to his bare, bruise-covered chest and stomach for emphasis, but Jackson still had his eyes resolutely shut, savoring the afterglow.

“Left your neck alone,” murmured Jackson dismissively.

“Sadly, I don’t think I can pull off the Steve Jobs look,” said Stiles. “Turtlenecks don’t really flatter my jawline.”

“Trust your instincts on this one,” said Jackson, finally opening his eyes.

Stiles let his gaze rake over Jackson’s too-handsome-to-be-allowed face and too-hot-to-be-allowed chest appreciatively, even though he knew it made Jackson self-conscious. He met Jackson’s too-pretty-to-be-allowed eyes and waited patiently for the signal from Jackson that they were done for the night.

Jackson still hadn’t touched Stiles, and okay, that was kind of disappointing, but Stiles could live with it. He didn’t want to ruin his favorite activity by making Jackson feel obligated to reciprocate. Stiles would rather be the only one making moves than have there be no moves being made at all. It was still a hell of a lot of fun and a huge turn-on.

So when Jackson zipped and buttoned up his jeans and rolled to a sitting position, Stiles prepared to steal another kiss or two and say good night (then politely wait ten minutes before masturbating to the memory of making Jackson come). But Jackson didn’t move to stand, or even look around to see where his shirt had gone. His eyes were fixed on Stiles’ lap, where his cock was very obviously hard, fighting its age-old battle for freedom from Stiles’ jeans. Jackson looked like he was steeling himself up to say or do something, but he stayed silent, motionless.

“Hey, we’ve been over this,” said Stiles. “You don’t have to do anything.”

“I know,” said Jackson. He looked down at his hands and picked at his fingernails nervously.

“Unless you want to,” said Stiles tentatively, trying very hard not to get his hopes up.

Jackson was still very focused on his hands.

“Do you?” Stiles nudged Jackson’s chin up with two fingers. “Hey, look at me.” Jackson’s eyes locked with Stiles’. “You want to?”

Jackson appeared to struggle internally for a few seconds. But then, slowly, he nodded. It was the sexiest head nod in the history of the universe.

“Could you, uh…?” Jackson’s internal struggle looked like it was turning into an epic battle for every word he could get out. “Can you…?”

“Make you?” suggested Stiles.

Jackson swallowed and nodded again. Okay, _that_ was the sexiest head nod in the history of the universe.

Stiles smiled mischievously, carefully keeping a handle on his excitement (as best he could). “Guess we’ll find out.”

He didn’t have werewolf powers, but Stiles was pretty sure he could almost hear how fast Jackson’s heart was racing. Okay, time to give Jackson some structure before he wussed out.

“Come here,” said Stiles. He stood and beckoned Jackson to stand in front of him. Jackson obeyed without hesitation. “We’re gonna do this one step at a time. We can stop if you want, okay?”

This was something that Stiles was trying to be conscious of: not abusing his power. Stiles hadn’t pushed to see how submissive Jackson would actually get, but so far Jackson had never refused to do something Stiles had told or asked him to do while they were fooling around. It would’ve been easy to rationalize just ploughing ahead without checking to make sure Jackson was okay with it. Jackson was a werewolf, after all; he could definitely stop a scrawny kid like Stiles. But Jackson didn’t act like he was stronger than Stiles once he started to sort of get in that submissive headspace. And while that was incredibly hot, taking advantage of it would be a really fucked up thing to do.

Jackson had opted not to respond in favor of stepping closer to Stiles and nosing behind his ear to smell him. Stiles had figured out that this meant Jackson’s beta wolf instincts were taking over. That was no good. Stiles loved the wolf’s glowy eyes, but he needed a version of Jackson that could actually speak.

“Answer me,” said Stiles firmly, and nudged Jackson away enough that their eyes met again. “If you don’t want to anymore, tell me. Understand?”

“Yes,” said Jackson. He looked a little more human and a little less nervous.

“Good,” said Stiles. He enjoyed the instinctual way Jackson’s eyes lowered ever-so-briefly in submission at just hearing that word. “Gimme a sec.”

Stiles closed his eyes and took a deep breath, willing himself to focus as he let it out and took another one. He’d never had a game plan for guiding Jackson through something specific, and he wanted to get it right. He smiled to himself when he noticed that Jackson had matched his breathing to Stiles’. If Stiles was calm and collected, Jackson would be, too.

Once Stiles had come up with a decent idea of how to proceed, he kissed Jackson, slow and deep, until Jackson let out the sigh through his nose that meant he’d given up control. Then Stiles opened his eyes and nipped at Jackson’s lower lip so Jackson would open his eyes, too.

“First things first,” said Stiles. “You need to get used to the fact that there’s a whole ’nother half of my body below my hipbones.”

Jackson’s fingers were hooked in Stiles' belt-loops, supporting Stiles' point about the hipbones issue. Stiles extricated one of Jackson’s hands and moved it so that Jackson’s palm was resting over the zip on Stiles' jeans.

“Feel that?” Stiles asked rhetorically. He nudged his hips into Jackson’s hand for emphasis. “That’s ’cause of you.”

Stiles squeezed his hand around Jackson’s so that Jackson’s hand would squeeze his cock through his jeans in turn.

“I’m going to take my hand away, and you’re going to keep touching me. Got it?”

Jackson nodded distractedly, but that wasn’t how this worked. Stiles asked, Jackson answered.

“ _Got it_?” Stiles repeated.

“Yes,” said Jackson softly.

“Okay.” Stiles took his hand away and rested it on Jackson’s hip. He wanted to touch, to kiss, but he needed to stay focused or Jackson wouldn’t be focused and the whole thing would fall apart.

Jackson was hesitant at first as he began running his palm over Stiles' cock through his jeans, but he soon became bolder. He added pressure and created a subtle rhythm when Stiles leaned into his hand to encourage him. Stiles had to keep reminding himself that his job right now was to guide Jackson, not get lost in how fucking amazing it was that somebody else’s hand was on his cock (even through two layers of fabric) with the intent of eventually making him come.

“Good,” said Stiles. “Now you’re going to take it out.”

Jackson’s hand stilled for a moment. Stiles could feel the tension coming back into Jackson’s muscles as he rubbed his palm soothingly over Jackson’s upper arm.

“Hey.” He made Jackson meet his eyes. “Do you want to stop?”

“No,” said Jackson, but his fingers seemed frozen at the fly of Stiles’ jeans.

“It’s okay if you do,” said Stiles, still holding Jackson’s gaze.

“I don’t want to stop,” said Jackson, his voice soft but clear.

“Tell you what,” said Stiles. “I’ll help.”

Jackson’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion, but he caught on once Stiles nudged his hand to the side so he could unbutton and unzip his own jeans. Once his cock was free of all forms of hated fabric, Stiles took Jackson’s hand in his and curled it around his erection. Both of them inhaled sharply at the contact.

“Good.” Stiles swallowed thickly, determined to keep his head. This was much more difficult than he’d anticipated. “Know what to do now?”

“Yes,” said Jackson. When Jackson’s hand started to move Stiles was sure he wasn’t going to last long enough to teach Jackson how to suck cock, and that thought was both frustrating and embarrassing. Surprisingly, Jackson didn’t ask for guidance for this like Stiles had when he’d given his first hand job. Maybe Jackson knew it didn’t really matter right now. It was just an in-between stage. They both knew where this was going.

“Good,” murmured Stiles. “Good job.”

Jackson looked at Stiles and bit his own lower lip, something he’d started doing when he wanted to kiss Stiles but wasn’t sure if he was supposed to. Stiles indulged him (because he was generous like that), and the way Jackson moaned when Stiles slipped his tongue into his mouth combined with Jackson’s still-moving hand nearly made Stiles lose it. He pulled away from the kiss and put his hand over Jackson’s to stop him.

“On your knees,” Stiles heard himself say in a voice that was almost a growl. And he would’ve worried that it might’ve been too forceful if not for the way Jackson’s eyes literally lit up in rings of glowing blue around wide pupils. Jackson obeyed without hesitation. Stiles placed his hand on the top of Jackson’s head and gently pushed him down a little further until he was settled with his face near Stiles’ cock.

“Good,” said Stiles yet again.

When Jackson wrapped his hand around Stiles’ cock again he seemed more confident, focused. Stiles watched shamelessly as Jackson opened his mouth. Maybe the attention would make Jackson nervous, but Stiles couldn’t help it. He wanted this image burned into his memory.

Warmth enveloped Stiles, soft and wet. Jackson didn’t bother with the experimental licks Stiles had taken when he’d done this for the first time. He just slid his mouth down around Stiles’ cock until his lips were flush with the hand he still had wrapped around it. Jackson paused and took several slow breaths through his nose. Then he started moving.

Stiles made a sound that might’ve embarrassed him if he’d had the capacity to register any thought that wasn’t directly related to what Jackson was doing to him. Jackson possessed a surprising level of coordination for a guy who was giving his first blow job, moving his hand in a steady rhythm with his mouth until Stiles’ knees started to feel weak. And then Jackson’s hand had fallen away and he’d taken a lot more of Stiles’ cock into his mouth and there was no way Stiles was going to last very long.

“God, your mouth is perfect,” Stiles said distractedly as his eyes closed of their own volition. “So fucking perfect.”

His fingers found Jackson’s hair, and he could see why Jackson usually did this to him when Stiles gave him head. He needed something to hold onto or he was sure he’d fall. When he tugged, Jackson groaned in his throat, and moved around Stiles more enthusiastically. He’d gotten enough of Stiles’ cock in his mouth that Stiles was actually starting to get concerned. He didn’t want to choke the guy. But then Jackson opened his eyes enough that Stiles could see them glowing, and that was it for him.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Stiles said breathlessly. “You’re gonna make--”

The rest of the words weren’t really necessary to the abrupt warning, which was lucky because Stiles didn’t have time to get them out before he came. His grip on Jackson’s hair tightened and he was dimly aware of saying Jackson’s name once or twice in a tone that could be construed either as a curse or as a prayer and it was absolutely impossible to care or even think about anything else besides how good it felt to come in Jackson’s mouth.

Jackson obediently kept from pulling away until Stiles released his hold on his hair. Jackson swallowed somewhat awkwardly, coughed a bit, then wiped at his mouth. Stiles managed not to laugh, remembering how weird it had been for him to swallow the first time and not wanting to embarrass Jackson.

“Hey,” said Stiles, sliding down to the floor mostly so he could be at eye level with Jackson but partially because his knees didn’t want to hold him up anymore. “That was… You were…” He took a deep breath, let it out. “ _Good_.”

Inexplicably and certainly unexpectedly, Jackson _smiled_ at Stiles. Not a smirk, a genuine _smile_. It was a dazed, contented sort of smile. Hell, it was positively pleasant. Once he’d gotten over the strangeness of seeing it, Stiles decided that he liked that smile, and he liked that he’d made Jackson smile like that. He smiled back at Jackson and kissed him before things got awkward. Jackson’s mouth tasted like Stiles’ cum, and apparently Stiles liked that, too. Interesting.

When the kiss broke, Jackson dropped his head to Stiles’ shoulder and breathed in his scent. Like Jackson’s smile, the _smelling_ felt a little different this time. Stiles wasn’t wolf catnip right now; he was wolf _comfort_. Stiles got the sense that the beta was content, too. It was strangely... endearing.

Stiles’ fingers found Jackson’s hair again and stroked it while they both took a few moments to recover. This was a side of Jackson Stiles had never seen before, and he wasn’t quite sure what to do. There was no doubt about it now; Jackson really was submissive, and it wasn’t just the wolf. The Jackson Stiles knew, even when lust-drunk, would never let Stiles _pet_ him.

They stayed like that for a minute or two, and then, like nothing different had happened, Jackson pulled away and went to find his shirt. The moment, or whatever it had been, was over.

Stiles decided that the best course of action would be to act like nothing different had happened, too. He needed to remember that no matter how Jackson behaved when Stiles got him in a submissive headspace, he was still Jackson, and what they were doing was still incredibly complicated.

“Just so we’re clear,” said Stiles as he hunted for his own shirt, “stuff that happens between you and me? That’s just you and me.”

“That’s not exactly clear,” said Jackson. He was fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. His fingers apparently weren’t cooperating.

“You know what I mean. All of _this_.” Stiles gestured vaguely at their respective disheveled states. “It’s just us. It has nothing to do with any of the shit that’s going on out there. Anything or anyone. Okay?”

“Yeah.” Jackson nodded. “Good.”

Stiles thought he could sense a note of relief in Jackson’s tone, see it beneath the surface of his expression. Stiles didn’t want anyone knowing about this because it would be too complicated to explain. But Jackson was clearly _terrified_ of people knowing. Was Jackson’s position in Derek’s pack really that fragile? Was he ashamed of how he acted with Stiles?

“’Night,” said Stiles as Jackson opened the window.

Jackson didn’t even acknowledge it before he left. Stiles didn’t take it personally. Jackson would probably need some time to process all of this. Stiles definitely did.

Tonight had been a turning point, Stiles knew. Jackson had finally reciprocated Stiles’ attentions, and Stiles could tell that he’d liked it. He usually obeyed Stiles, but this… this was a whole new level of submission. It had become obvious to Stiles that Jackson _needed_ to submit. The fact that he practically became another person when he did it was evidence enough of that. And it made complete sense when Stiles considered who Jackson was.

Jackson had always wanted to be perceived as the alpha male. The best of the best, the leader. The kind of guy people either wanted to be or be _with_. And he was. He’d been that for as long as Stiles could remember. But that desperation for validation, that obsession with perfection, should’ve been a warning sign. The Kanima had proven that. The outside reflected the inside, and on the inside Jackson hadn’t been a confident leader; he’d been broken, desperate for guidance and approval. So he’d become a slave, a mindless weapon.

Jackson wasn’t the Kanima anymore. Lydia had helped heal some of that brokenness. But adding a beta werewolf’s instinct to seek approval wasn’t exactly healthy for a guy who was already desperate for validation by nature. Jackson wasn’t a slave anymore, but he still craved guidance, and he definitely wasn’t getting it from Derek. He wanted someone to tell him what to do. He needed someone to say that magic word to him: “Good.” He needed someone to think he was _good_ at something.

Stiles could be that for Jackson. He wanted to be that. Not just because it was fun or it was exciting or it felt really fucking good. Stiles had never been the best. Sure, his grades were good and he had Scott, but no one had ever wanted to be him or be _with_ him (except maybe Erica, but she’d ended up skipping town with Boyd). Everyone around him was supernaturally strong or obscenely talented and popular or both. Stiles was literally powerless. Except with Jackson. Jackson gave him power. Stiles was grateful that Jackson needed to submit. Because dominating? That was what _Stiles_ needed.

* * *

JACKSON

Jackson was only vaguely aware of the walk home, relying mostly on autopilot in finding his way. He crawled back into his room through the window and mechanically removed his clothes. That’s what he always did after seeing Stiles: he put his clothing in the hamper, then got in the shower. Once he stepped under the water, however, he forgot what to do next.

After standing there for an indeterminate amount of time, Jackson slid down to the floor of the shower and sat there with the hot water streaming over him, drowning out all other sound. Quieting the world. He didn’t notice he was crying until his shoulders were shaking with silent sobs.

He didn’t know why he was crying. He wasn’t hurt, or sad, or humiliated, or even embarrassed. He was… _stunned_. Back there, with Stiles… he’d been a different person. Not his cocky, surly, defensive outer self or his scared, insecure, needy inner self. Not even just the desperate, frustrated wolf, though the wolf had been there, too. Someone buried even deeper. Someone he hadn’t known was there.

That person was small and fragile and timid. That person needed to feel protected, safe. And he hadn’t felt safe for so very long. Long before the werewolves had come into his life.

Tonight Jackson had felt safe. Tonight he’d felt protected. Guided. Appreciated. All he’d had to do was what he’d been told to do. And he’d done it, and he’d done it well, and it had felt good. Stiles had told him it was good. Stiles had told him _he_ was good, and for a few precious minutes Jackson had been able to slip out of his armor and be the version of himself who didn’t feel anxious or fearful or self-conscious. He’d been the Jackson who could feel _peace_.

Jackson’s crying slowly subsided. He stood and reluctantly scrubbed all of Stiles’ smell off his skin, washed it out of his hair. He could feel the armor pulling itself back onto and around him as he dressed and headed over to the loft. He hadn’t realized how heavy it was until now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, we're nearing the end of the mostly-PWP portion of the fic; next week I'll be moving into 3A (AU) plot. There'll still be smut, but it's time to get our boys back into the world. Summer lovin' can only last so long, after all. Thanks to everyone who's read and/or left kudos and/or commented. I'm still overwhelmed by all of the positive response I'm getting and I hope that you guys continue to enjoy the fic as it progresses.
> 
> Fair warning: I'm beginning the final two weeks of a very busy term right now, and though I'm hoping to keep up my once-weekly posting schedule, there may be some delays. The good news is that after the term is over I should have no excuses not to keep up ;)
> 
> Special thanks to my beta [Ismene_Jane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ismene_Jane) and pre-post reader [AradiaFirehawk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AradiaFirehawk).


	7. Vulnerability

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER SEVEN: VULNERABILITY

STILES

Jackson was somewhat guarded around Stiles for a little while after his first time really submitting. Stiles wasn’t surprised. It sucked that he’d spooked Jackson, but he could understand it. It had definitely been uncharted territory for them, especially since they weren’t even really friends at the end of the day. Stiles only liked a certain version of Jackson, and that was the only facet of Jackson’s character who liked Stiles in return.

So, Stiles slowed down. He dialed things back from third base to first and focused on puzzling out how to coax Submissive Jackson out without scaring him off. They kissed a lot. Like, a _lot_ a lot. Stiles would nip at Jackson’s lips and tug his hair and get just aggressive enough so that Jackson’s eyes glowed when Stiles made him look at him. Stiles couldn’t get enough of how powerful he felt during the moments when the switch flipped and Submissive Jackson came through.

And the second that happened, Dominant Stiles would wake up, and he’d kiss Jackson more deeply and bite at his neck and growl strings of dirty words into Jackson’s ear. Jackson would whine his wolf-human submission and cling to Stiles like he’d fall if he let go, and he’d obey when Stiles forbade him from shifting into the wolf except for his eyes because they were “so fucking hot, you have no idea.”

Jackson hadn’t smiled again, though. Not like he’d done after his first and (so far) only incredible blow job. He kept letting Stiles in, but not that far. Sometimes it felt like Stiles had imagined the whole thing, but then he remembered Jackson’s hair beneath his fingers as Stiles had pet him and he knew it was real. That meant he could make it happen again.

He’d just have to keep trying.

* * *

JACKSON

“Jackson.”

Jackson was vaguely aware that someone was talking, but what little ability to think he possessed at the moment was preoccupied with musing over how he would never get sick of the way Stiles’ teeth felt pressing into the skin of his neck, or sliding along the edge of his ear.

“ _Jackson_.”

His skin felt cold where Stiles’ mouth had been, the air cooling the saliva. Jackson shivered. Stiles had pulled away. This was unacceptable. The haziness in Jackson’s head was starting to clear, and he _hated_ when that happened. So he resisted it, keeping his eyes firmly shut. Stiles’ bed was comfortable, even on top of the covers. But the weight on top of him that had been Stiles was gone now.

“Come on, dude. Come back.” Stiles’ voice. Somewhere above him.

“Why?” murmured Jackson.

“Your phone.”

“Ignore it,” said Jackson irritably. He kept his eyes closed as he tugged on Stiles’ arm, trying to get him to turn Jackson’s brain off again.

“I’ve been ignoring it for the last five minutes,” said Stiles. “Maybe Lassie’s trying to tell you that Timmy fell down the well.”

“What?”

“Your alpha beckons.” Stiles placed Jackson’s phone in his palm. The plastic was cold. “You should probably see what he wants.”

Jackson groaned as he finally forced himself to open his eyes. He squinted at the screen of his phone. Five missed calls, four texts, each a minute or so apart:

Derek: Come to the loft.  
Derek: Now.  
Derek: This can’t wait.  
Derek: Do I need to get you myself?

“Fuck,” said Jackson. He got up and hunted down his shirt. “ _Fuck_.”

“What’s up?”

“I have to go to the loft, right now.” Jackson pulled his shirt over his head and started putting his shoes back on.

“So go,” said Stiles. “I’ll see you later.”

“I need a shower. I don’t have time. _Fuck_ ,” he repeated.

“I’ll text him for you. What should I say?”

“I don’t know,” said Jackson as he fumbled with his shoelaces.

“How about, ‘Mom was talking to me. Be over ASAP.’?”

“Sure, fine, whatever,” said Jackson distractedly as he grabbed his jacket.

“Aaand sent,” said Stiles. He handed Jackson back his phone and saluted him. “Godspeed.”

Jackson pocketed his phone and fled through the window without a goodbye. Time to take the fastest shower of his life. If this wasn’t actually something important he was going to be furious with Derek.

* * *

DEREK

Derek was hit with the smell of fake-musky teenage boy body wash as Jackson slid the loft door shut behind him. His hair was damp. Derek bit back an annoyed comment about Jackson deciding he had time for a shower before coming over and focused on the issue at hand.

“I’m here,” said Jackson irritably. “What’s the emergency?”

Derek was pleased to see that his warning glare made Jackson’s self-assured expression falter and his pulse speed up temporarily. Even little gestures could be enough to remind a beta who was in charge, and Derek didn’t have the time or patience to put up with Jackson’s posturing right now.

“Everyone’s favorite tall, blonde, blue-eyed victim of child abuse has gone AWOL,” said Peter, and Derek would’ve glared at him, too, if he’d thought it would do any good. Peter, being older than Derek and a former alpha himself, was immune to pretty much all of Derek’s attempts to assert authority. It was best to just ignore him if possible.

“What?” said Jackson.

“Isaac’s missing,” said Derek.

“‘Missing?’” Jackson raised an eyebrow. “What, did he run away like the others?”

Derek sighed deeply. He’d been hoping to avoid revealing this information for as long as possible. “Boyd and Erica didn’t run away.”

“What?” said Jackson again. “Then what the hell happened to them?”

“The same thing that we’re ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure happened to Isaac,” said Peter.

Jackson glared at Peter in annoyance and gave Derek a questioning look.

“They were taken by another pack,” explained Derek.

Jackson regarded Derek incredulously. “That’s a thing werewolves do?”

“Not usually,” said Derek. “But this pack is different.”

“Are either of you going to tell me _why_ , or do I have to play Twenty Questions?” Jackson snapped. Derek shot him another warning look.

“It’s an alpha pack,” said Peter. “Quit beating around the bush, Derek. The clock is ticking.”

“Hang on,” said Jackson. “They’re _all_ alphas? How does that even work?”

“It’s complicated,” said Derek. He was beginning to regret bringing Jackson into this. It might turn out to be more of a headache than it was worth. “The point is that we need to get Isaac back.”

Jackson snorted. “And how exactly are ‘we’ supposed to do that?”

“We’re going to go to the places I told him to search and see if we can track his scent,” said Derek, trying to make it sound like it was a great plan and that it would definitely work, while secretly fearing the worst. If they hadn’t been able to find Boyd and Erica all summer, what chance did they really have of finding Isaac?

“And if we can’t?” said Jackson.

“We’ll deal with it then,” said Derek. He tried to put enough authority in his tone that Jackson would stop digging. He did, but took another angle.

“When were you planning on telling me about this?”

Derek kind of wanted to slap Jackson. He would’ve liked to believe that Jackson wished Derek had told him earlier because he was worried about the pack and wanted to help, but the reality was that Jackson was only ever worried about himself. That was part of why Derek hadn’t told him before.

“When you needed to know,” said Derek.

“Which is now, obviously,” said Peter helpfully.

“Don’t tell anyone about this,” said Derek. “Understand?”

Jackson rolled his eyes. “Why would--”

“ _Do you understand_?” Derek growled, letting his eyes glow red. He’d had just about enough of Jackson’s attitude.

Derek gritted his teeth when Jackson didn’t quite hide his glare of defiance as he ducked his head and said, “Yes.”

“Good.” Derek moved closer to Jackson and demanded eye contact. “This changes nothing from the outside. Don’t act any differently around anyone else. Check on Stiles when McCall and I say. Spend the rest of your time with Danny or at your house. And get here right away if I tell you to.”

“Don’t I have a target on my back?” said Jackson.

Peter laughed. “You’ve had a target on your back all summer.”

“But--”

Derek silenced Jackson with a look. “If you can find a way to explain to your parents why it’s not safe for you to be at home without telling them about werewolves, go ahead,” said Derek. “I’m not getting accused of kidnapping teenagers again.”

Derek knew Jackson wouldn’t have a ready response for this. Jackson’s parents had known something was wrong at the end of the last school year, which was unsurprising considering that their son had been declared dead and then shown up alive. So they’d sent Jackson to London for a fresh start (until he’d asked to come home). But, as far as Derek knew, they had no idea that Jackson was a werewolf, or that werewolves even existed. And it would stay that way, or not only would Jackson not be in Derek’s pack anymore, but the Whittemores would be getting a personal visit from Derek.

Jackson sighed deeply. “Fine. Any advice for how to not get kidnapped?”

Derek shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. “Watch your back, and call one of us if something happens.”

“Great,” muttered Jackson. “Can I go now?”

“Would you recognize Isaac’s scent?”

“Yeah,” said Jackson. “I can go to the locker room if I have to.”

“Good,” said Derek. “Pay attention in case you smell him anywhere. I’ll let you know if I need you.”

Derek dismissed Jackson, who wasn’t quite able to hide his anxiety before leaving. A twinge of guilt twisted in Derek’s stomach. As much as he disliked his first beta most of the time, Jackson was still a kid, and he had plenty to worry about already. He was also Derek’s pack, though the bond wasn’t strong. Derek was responsible for him. And given the way things had been going lately, there was no way of keeping Jackson from being abducted off the streets of Beacon Hills at any time. Derek was staring into the face of his worst fear: losing his entire pack again. And this time it really would be all his fault.

“That kid’s got a serious attitude problem,” said Peter with a smirk. “I like him.”

Derek shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Deep breaths, Derek. Deep breaths. Obnoxious, manipulative bastard or not, he needed Peter right now.

* * *

STILES

Junior year began right when ominous events started happening in Beacon Hills again. Scott getting a tattoo had been the most exciting non-Jackson-related thing to happen in months until a deer committed suicide using Lydia’s car and nearly took Lydia and Allison with it. Stiles stayed up half the night before the first day of school researching deer-related vehicle accidents, and Lydia almost succeeded in convincing him that her dog biting her was just a coincidence, until a massive flock of crows busted through the friggin’ window during English class and attacked everybody. One’s an incident, two’s a coincidence, three...

Stiles left Lydia with Allison and Jackson (who’d been glued to Danny, carefully ignoring Lydia and Stiles) after his dad showed up to investigate, and it didn’t occur to Stiles that Isaac hadn’t been in class until he called Scott. Stiles ended up at the Hale house, where Derek was treating an unconscious Isaac with unidentified purple flowers. And then Stiles had to hold Scott down while Derek used a _blowtorch_ to make Scott’s awful tattoo come back, because that was apparently super important when wild animals were going all murder-suicide and a werewolf was passed out on a table a few feet away. Stiles loved Scott to death, but that kid had trouble keeping his priorities straight sometimes.

Then Stiles was kicking himself for the fact that Scott was the one who noticed the freshly-painted door instead of him. The door that, after all that paint was scratched up by Scott’s wolfy claws, made everything fall into place. Why Derek had convinced Scott that someone should keep an eye on Stiles all summer. Why wild animals were suddenly freaking out right and left. It was a pack of alphas. An alpha pack. And they’d been gunning for Derek’s betas since before Sophomore year had ended.

Stiles’ first reaction should have been fear for himself and his friends, or maybe anger at Derek for not telling them the truth about what had happened to Boyd and Erica. But it wasn’t. Instead, his mind was focused on one crucial fact: Jackson was one of Derek’s betas, too.

* * *

JACKSON

Jackson went over to the loft as soon as everyone was dismissed from the most eventful English class he’d ever had, but Derek wasn’t home. After texting him and being told to wait there, Jackson sat in his car until Derek showed up. He arrived with a sweat-drenched, half-conscious Isaac in the passenger seat.

“Help me get him upstairs.”

“What the hell happened?” asked Jackson. “Where wa--” he grunted when Derek hauled one of Isaac’s arms over Jackson’s shoulder and made him hold the significantly taller boy up while Derek locked the car and opened the front door of the building.

“Just do what I told you,” snapped Derek. And because it was what his alpha had commanded, Jackson helped Isaac limp up to the loft.

Once they were inside, Derek guided Isaac up the staircase to his room while Jackson waited impatiently for an explanation. Of course, unsurprisingly, Derek didn’t really give him one.

“What happened?” asked Jackson again.

“Someone rescued him from the alpha pack and he ended up at the hospital,” said Derek. “There were some alphas there but Scott and I got him out. He’ll be fine.”

Jackson fought the urge to roll his eyes. “That’s it? That’s really all you’re going to tell me?”

“That’s all you need to know.”

“But--”

“ _Jackson_.” The command in Derek’s tone made Jackson shut his mouth immediately. Derek’s eyes glowed red as he stared Jackson down. Jackson’s wolf cowered and he ducked his head, hating himself while he did it. Unwilling submission made him feel sick, weak. He didn’t like being manipulated by animal instinct.

Derek gestured for Jackson to sit on the couch, and though Jackson would’ve preferred to stand, he wasn’t going to argue right now. Derek paced near the windows.

“Scott and Stiles know now,” Derek continued. “Which means Lydia and Allison are probably going to stick their noses in this, too. Don’t tell them anything. Don’t answer any questions they ask you about it. Don’t help them get involved. The alpha pack is here because of us, and we can handle it without a bunch of teenagers getting in the way.”

Jackson wasn’t sure he could have disagreed more. If two missing-and-probably-dead betas and one formerly-missing-and-half-dead beta were Derek ‘handling’ the situation, then Jackson didn’t feel great about his own chances of coming through this unscathed. Lydia and Stiles were two of the smartest people Jackson knew, Allison was a hunter, and McCall was a werewolf. How could getting them involved hurt their chances?

But again, he couldn’t argue with his alpha.

“What do you want me to do?” asked Jackson tentatively. Respectfully. Like a good beta waiting for orders.

“For now, go home,” said Derek.

“Home? Seriously?” It was very difficult to stay respectful considering the ridiculousness of Derek’s decisions.

“We’ve been over this,” said Derek, clearly annoyed. “Your parents will get suspicious if you’re gone too long.”

“But I…” Jackson swallowed and looked down at his shoes. “I want to help.”

It hurt his pride to admit it. Jackson was so tired of being sent away from the pack. Derek had brought him in to help find Isaac, but apparently now that Isaac was back Jackson would be exiled again. Jackson didn’t really care about Isaac or Derek or Peter, but his wolf did. The wolf had been alarmed by Isaac’s pain, and was hurt by his alpha’s rejection. There was a constant ache in Jackson’s chest and stomach now when he was around Derek--a mix of fear and hurt and anxiety. Now, more than ever, Jackson was convinced he’d only ever be a part of the pack in a detached way. He hated that he’d never belong, and he hated that not belonging hurt so much. Derek had no right to have that kind of power over him, alpha or not.

Derek sighed. “The best way you can help right now is by going home.”

“Okay,” said Jackson obediently. Because Derek wasn’t going to change his mind, so what else could he do? But then he had an important afterthought. “Should I still check on Stiles?”

Derek considered this for a moment. Jackson tried to be conscious of his own pulse in case he somehow gave himself away.

“I’ll talk to Scott,” said Derek. “I don’t want them involved, but that doesn’t mean they’re safe. I’ll let you know if I want you to go over there.”

Jackson nodded his understanding as he stood and headed for the door.

“Jackson,” Derek said from behind him, and Jackson paused. “Don’t talk to him about the alphas. I mean it. You know how he is when he has a puzzle to solve, and I don’t want to have to deal with Scott if his best friend gets himself killed.”

“Yes, Derek,” said Jackson. And he’d obey because that’s what his alpha had told him to do.

But as he was driving home he also knew without consciously deciding to do it that he was going to go to Stiles’ house that night, whether Derek or McCall wanted him there or not. He hadn’t been forbidden from doing it, after all.

* * *

STILES

The sound of his window sliding open nearly made Stiles jump halfway out of his desk chair. He had his baseball bat in his hand before he realized the wolf crawling in through his window was Jackson. He set it back down as Jackson stepped into the room and shut the window behind him.

“Scott checked on me earlier,” said Stiles, not bothering to stifle his yawn. “Also it’s waaay past my bedtime.”

“Figured you’d be up researching suicidal crows,” said Jackson, like that passed for an explanation as to why he was there.

“Alpha packs, actually,” said Stiles. “But you already knew about that.”

Stiles was pretty annoyed with Jackson about the whole alpha pack thing. Sure, they weren’t exactly buddies, but Stiles would’ve at least given Jackson a heads-up if he was the one who’d known bloodthirsty uberwolves were in town.

“Only since Isaac went missing,” said Jackson defensively.

“Derek kept you out of it all summer?” Stiles found that hard to believe.

“Yeah,” said Jackson. “I guess there were a lot of reasons why he kept me busy.”

The bitterness in Jackson’s voice drove the irritation out of Stiles. If Jackson really had been kept in the dark about this all summer, he had even more of a reason to be pissed than Stiles did. Stiles was the best friend of a werewolf and a known associate of Derek’s, which put him in danger, but Jackson was one of Derek’s betas. He was pretty much at the top of the hit list.

“What’s his plan for dealing with them?” said Stiles.

Jackson propped himself against the wall closest to Stiles’ desk. “I can’t tell you.”

“Why? Because Derek said?”

Jackson sighed. “Yes.”

“Bullshit,” said Stiles. Because seriously, fuck Derek. “It’s our asses on the line here, too. Scott’s and Allison’s and Lydia’s--All of us. Do you really think you guys are better off without our help?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think.” Jackson was avoiding Stiles’ eyes.

“Which means you don’t agree with Derek.”

“Stiles.” Jackson’s voice had a note of warning in it. That was the ‘Drop it, Stiles’ tone people used with him a lot. Like it ever worked.

“He’s wrong and you know it,” said Stiles. He stood and moved into Jackson’s space. “Tell me what’s going on. I can help.”

Jackson still refused to look at him. “No.”

“But--”

“You know I can’t,” snapped Jackson. He finally looked up, and there was bitterness and frustration in his expression. “Derek’s my alpha. He ordered me not to tell you anything.”

Stiles didn’t want to let this go. If there was a pack of alpha werewolves kidnapping and/or killing other werewolves, he needed to know as much about it as possible, as fast as possible. But he knew Jackson, and he knew Jackson’s place in Derek’s pack. The only thing Stiles would get out of pushing Jackson for more information would be a very angry Jackson.

“Sometimes I really hate that leather-jacket-and-shades-wearing, ridiculous-car-driving, sparse-interior-decorating douchebag,” grumbled Stiles.

“Yeah,” said Jackson, sounding distracted. Stiles realized that the fidgety fingers on one of his hands had hooked in Jackson’s belt loop. Jackson was now leaning in a little closer than was necessary for conversation. Breathing in Stiles’ scent. Then his eyes were glowing.

So _that’s_ why he’d really stopped by. Dominant Stiles stirred.

“Want me to shut off your brain?” asked Stiles. He already knew the answer, but he liked making Jackson say it.

“Yeah,” said Jackson. His voice was already low and breathy. “Yes.”

“Good,” said Stiles, and kissed him.

* * *

JACKSON

Fuck Derek. Fuck Peter, fuck Isaac, fuck _pack_. Fuck school, fuck homework, fuck sports, and fuck future plans. Fuck being lost and lonely and afraid. Fuck murderous, bloodthirsty alphas.

Fuck everything except how Stiles felt and smelled and tasted and sounded when they were alone.

Fuck everything except how Stiles could make Jackson not give a shit for once in his life.

Fuck everything except Stiles.

Jackson needed what he had with Stiles. It wasn’t love, or loyalty, or even friendship. But it _worked_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon plot! Aaaa! So, I hope it works that I sort of summarise stuff that's mostly the same in Canon (like Stiles' sum-up of the first day of school). I want to put the fic in its proper place in canon without rehashing everything. I assume everyone who's reading this has seen the show, after all ;)
> 
> Thanks again to everyone who's read and/or left kudos and/or commented. Your feedback is really motivating and always brightens my day. I've got one week of my term left here and due dates next Friday, so though I really hope I can get the chapter posted on time, there's a chance it could be a couple of days late. Fingers crossed!
> 
> Special thanks to my beta [Ismene_Jane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ismene_Jane) and pre-post reader [AradiaFirehawk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AradiaFirehawk).


	8. Virginity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER EIGHT: VIRGINITY

STILES

About three seconds after Stiles walked through Heather’s front door there were lips pressed against his. Whoa. And then “Help me pick out a bottle of wine” pretty much immediately turned into kissing in the basement. Somehow she got him up against a wine rack and this was not at _all_ how Stiles was used to kissing.

“Stiles, I just turned seventeen today,” Heather was saying, and it was hard to form words to respond because he was so caught off-guard. “And you know what I want for my birthday?”

Stiles tried to play off his nervousness as cute: “A bike?”

“To not be a seventeen-year-old virgin.”

Stiles had a split second to admire how smoothly she kicked off her shoes and became three inches shorter before she was kissing him again, and then she was going for his belt buckle and he was way too fucking nervous for a guy who was usually in charge of these things and she was asking him if he’d ever done this before and the answer was _complicated_ so he deflected.

“Turned seventeen? No, not yet, no.”

She gave him a cute, slightly seductive, somehow also slightly exasperated smile. “Stiles.”

Stiles figured a lie by omission was probably the best course of action here. If he said he’d had sex before, she’d assume it had been with a _girl_ , which would put pressure and expectations on the whole thing and she’d probably have questions he didn’t have answers to. Technically he’d never had _that_ kind of sex, right? Technically he hadn’t gotten all the way around the bases with either gender. Technically.

“Yeah, maybe that other thing, too...”

“Do you want to?” she asked. And she was Heather and she smelled nice and was adorable and wanted him. “I mean, would you be okay with that?”

“Would I be okay with that?” Stiles’ brain stuttered almost as badly as his speech did. “I believe so, yeah, um--No, yeah, very… okay.”

Then she was kissing him again, and he tried so hard to make Dominant Stiles come out, to be cool and calm and not a total fucking spaz about the prospect of sex with a very attractive girl. But it didn’t work. He couldn’t dominate Heather; Heather wasn’t physically strong enough to stop Stiles if he did something she didn’t like. The last thing Stiles wanted was to be the kind of guy who came even remotely close to forcing a girl to do something she didn’t want to do.

It didn’t seem like that was going to be a problem, though, seeing as how she had just unbuckled his belt.

And _fuck_ he didn’t have a condom. _Great_. Now Stiles had to hobble upstairs with a very obvious erection (please, please be an asset here, baggy jeans) and go condom hunting before The Moment had passed and Heather had second thoughts.

When he got back down to the basement, he called out for Heather as he tried to steady his nerves. But she didn’t answer. Her shoes were there where she’d dropped them, but she was gone. Maybe he really had missed The Moment. Stiles spent a little while at the party trying to track her down, but figured if she’d left him, she probably didn’t want to be found. He wasn’t in the best mood ever during the trip home.

* * *

JACKSON

Jackson had considered not going to Stiles’ house that night. For one thing, he still didn’t have Derek’s official word that he should go, and for another, he knew Stiles was going to a party and might not even be back till late. That being said, Jackson felt like shit, and Stiles made Jackson feel slightly less like shit, and it was nice to minimize how much he felt like shit whenever possible. So he went.

He should’ve stayed home.

“You smell like a girl,” said Jackson. He’d been assaulted by the scent as soon as he’d gotten within three feet of Stiles.

“What, like sugar and spice and everything nice?” Stiles said it without humor. For once, he didn’t look excited to see Jackson there. At first Jackson had thought maybe Stiles was just tired, but there was something else.

“No,” said Jackson coldly. “Like a girl who wanted to fuck you.”

Stiles bristled. “Yeah, like a girl who I thought was my friend until she propositioned me out of the blue and then ditched me in her basement.”

Jackson had clearly touched a nerve, but he wasn’t in the mood to back down. The fact that Stiles smelled like that felt _wrong_ to him. “You wanted to fuck her, too.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” said Stiles irritably.

A low growl rumbled in Jackson’s throat and his eyes flashed.

Stiles looked like he might growl back. He grabbed the front of Jackson’s shirt and slammed him against the wall, hard. It didn’t hurt Jackson, but it got his attention.

“ _No_ ,” said Stiles angrily, hand still gripping Jackson’s shirt. “We have an agreement. Whatever happens in here stays in here. Did I want to have sex with Heather? Fucking-A right I did. And I would’ve, if she hadn’t ditched me at her own birthday party, which she invited me to. You’re not my fucking boyfriend--”

Jackson’s reaction to the word ‘boyfriend’ was instantaneous and visceral. “You’re goddamned right I’m not your--”

“ _Let me finish_.” Stiles’s tone was so authoritative that Jackson immediately shut his mouth. “You’re not my fucking boyfriend. You don’t get to tell me what to do, and you don’t get to be pissed about what I do with other people. If a hot girl wants to fuck me, chances are I’m probably gonna try. I’m pretty sure you’d do the same.”

Jackson didn’t know what to say to that. Would he, if he had the chance? He hadn’t done anything sexual with anyone but Stiles since Lydia. It had only been a couple of months, but it felt like a lot longer than that. The thought of sex with a girl was still very appealing, but the prospect of going back to being the person in charge of sex was… daunting. And the wolf in him insisted that submitting to anyone but Stiles would be wrong.

“Now,” said Stiles, his voice calmer. He let go of Jackson’s shirt and took a step back from him. “If you want to talk about exclusivity or something, let’s talk. Otherwise, drop it.”

Jackson shifted uncomfortably. _Exclusivity_ : code for ‘dating in secret,’ which Jackson definitely did not want. “It’s fine.”

Stiles raised an eyebrow at him. “You don’t look sure.”

“I don’t care,” Jackson lied. It was actually kind of a relief to be around someone he could lie to. “It’s the fucking _wolf_.” He rolled his eyes. “Do what you want, but you can’t smell like that around me.”

“I didn’t think I’d be having company, especially company with superhuman olfactory abilities.”

“Fair enough,” muttered Jackson.

“Tell you what,” said Stiles, sounding much more like himself again. “How about whatever happens out there stays out there, too? I won’t bring any extra pheromones home if you don’t show up with lipstick on your collar.”

“Okay,” said Jackson quickly, because it was the only thing he could say without having a very complicated conversation. But it didn’t feel okay. Jackson would rather die than have a little talk about _exclusivity_ with Stiles, but the thought of Stiles with someone else… It bothered Jackson, and not just the wolf part of him. Stiles was still standing close enough to him that he could smell the mix of the girl’s pheromones and Stiles’, and it made him feel sick.

“I doubt it’ll come up anyway,” said Stiles with a placating smile. “You’ve been the only person to show any interest besides her.”

Jackson snorted. “What does that say about me?”

“You have very low standards.”

“Not usually,” said Jackson, “but there’s always an exception to the rule.”

Stiles actually laughed at that. He stepped back into Jackson’s space and tried to kiss him, but Jackson turned his face away. His wolf wouldn’t accept attention from Stiles when he smelled like someone else, regardless of how much Jackson wanted it.

“Is it really that bad?” said Stiles, frowning.

Jackson nodded, still turned away.

“Fine, I’ll shower,” said Stiles. “But you're coming with me.”

“What?” Jackson’s eyes widened.

“You heard me,” said Stiles, pushing authority into his tone. “Get in the shower.”

A pang of _want_ hit Jackson’s gut. He hadn’t let Stiles do much more than kiss him in a while. He’d been worried--no, afraid--that he’d get lost again, let Stiles take his armor off, and then later have to endure the painful experience of putting it back on. Still, he followed Stiles to the bathroom, and he tried to downplay how good it made him feel that Stiles blatantly watched him undress. Jackson had never had body image issues, but there was something about the way Stiles looked at him… Then they were in the shower and _Jackson_ was the one watching as Stiles soaped himself up and started scrubbing.

“Want in on this?” Stiles held the bottle of body wash out to Jackson.

“I’m not dirty.”

“Maybe not yet,” said Stiles with a smirk that made the pang in Jackson’s stomach intensify.

Stiles rinsed himself off and then washed his hair while Jackson stood near the end of the shower, watching the water fall on his own shins and feet because seeing Stiles naked and wet and not touching Jackson was too much to handle.

“There,” said Stiles. Jackson looked up. Stiles’ hair was flattened out by the water. “Do I smell better?”

Jackson inhaled experimentally. He couldn’t sense any trace of the girl’s scent, and the pheromones that told him Stiles was turned on were fresh. They were for Jackson, as was Stiles’ very obvious erection.

“Yeah,” Jackson said distractedly.

“Then get the fuck over here.” Stiles managed to pull Jackson toward him without slipping, and then he was kissing Jackson, and Jackson wanted so badly to just give in, but he pulled back.

“What?” said Stiles. His frustration was plain.

Jackson eyed Stiles warily. “You’re doing this because of her.”

_Because you didn’t get to fuck her._

Stiles’ eyebrows furrowed, like he didn’t understand what Jackson meant. When he caught on, he rolled his eyes.

“I’m not doing it because of _her_.” Stiles nipped at Jackson’s bottom lip. “I’m doing it because of _you_.”

But Jackson needed to be sure. He locked eyes with Stiles. “Say it again.”

Stiles didn’t blink. His pulse was even as he said clearly, “Screw Heather. I want _you_.” He slid his fingers into Jackson’s hair and gripped it, hard. “I _always_ want you. Seriously, do you have any idea how fucking distracting you are?”

He hadn’t lied. This time it was Jackson who initiated the kiss. Stiles made a pleased sound in his throat and tightened his hold on Jackson’s hair. Jackson nearly whimpered with the pleasure-pain of it.

“Good,” said Stiles lowly when the kiss broke. “Always good.”

Stiles kissed him until Jackson was achingly hard against Stiles’ hip. Water was running over their faces. Drops of it seeped into their mouths when their lips parted before Stiles was kissing him again. Water would get in Jackson’s eyes if he opened them, but he didn’t think he could do that anyway. _Feeling_ was all that mattered now. Feeling and smell. Stiles’ mouth and his hands and the hot water, and Stiles’ scent mixing with the steam.

Then motion, and Jackson might have slipped if Stiles wasn’t holding him up. A vague awareness of smooth, water-warmed tile against his skin. Stiles had him pinned to the wall of the shower, Stiles’ chest against Jackson’s back, Jackson’s chest against the tile. Jackson inhaled sharply when Stiles' cock slid along Jackson’s ass, and for a moment it felt right and Jackson wanted it and he pushed back into it. Stiles’ fingers were gripping Jackson’s hipbones like handles as he rocked into him. Instinct was telling Jackson that this was a very good thing, and that even better things would be happening soon.

But then the part of his brain that Stiles usually shut off stirred, and a thrill of fear ran through Jackson. Every muscle in his body tensed, and Stiles must have felt it because he stilled his movements. His grip on Jackson’s hips eased.

Jackson’s mind was at war with itself and his body. He did want it. Part of him had wanted it for weeks now. The wolf in him was practically begging for it: the ultimate physical submission. Sex with Stiles was always going to be this way, because that was how Jackson and Stiles _worked_.

But another part of him was downright terrified. Jackson had already mentally and emotionally let Stiles in, in some ways even more than he had with Lydia. It was still nothing like love, but it was impossible not to _feel_ in some way when you became that vulnerable. This would be another way of letting Stiles in. A literal one. No one had done that to Jackson before. He hadn’t thought anyone ever would.

“It’s okay,” said Stiles. Jackson didn’t realize he was trembling until he felt Stiles’ palms running up and down his sides, trying to soothe him.

“I just…” Jackson’s voice was so quiet he wasn’t sure Stiles would be able to hear it over the falling water. “Not now. Not… Not yet.”

“It’s okay,” repeated Stiles. “I get it.” His blunt, human teeth slid over Jackson’s shoulder, the nape of his neck. This was how Stiles’ fidgeting presented itself with Jackson: his hands and mouth were always finding and moving over the places on Jackson’s body that were within reach.

Jackson felt his muscles begin to relax again under Stiles’ mouth, his hands. The weight of Stiles’ body against his back was comforting, now, rather than frightening.

“Promise me something,” said Stiles, somewhere near Jackson’s ear. Uncharacteristically serious now, even for his dominant self. “Don’t ever let me do anything to you that you don’t really want.”

Jackson nodded awkwardly, cheek pressed to the tile wall.

“Swear,” insisted Stiles.

“I swear,” said Jackson. And somewhere in the back of his mind he understood: Stiles wasn’t sure if Jackson would say no to him.

Jackson wasn’t really sure, either.

“Good,” said Stiles, playful again. “Now, what _do_ you want?”

A hot shiver ran through Jackson at Stiles’ words. He couldn’t say it outloud. It was always so hard to say what he wanted. Jackson carefully turned around so he could face Stiles, who was still pressed close to him. Jackson bit his own lower lip, silently requesting more kisses. Stiles happily obliged. As the kisses deepened, Jackson caught Stiles’ tongue between his lips and sucked on it gently. He pressed his hips to Stiles’, cock sliding along Stiles’ skin.

Stiles got the message. The kissing stopped and Stiles sank down to his knees on the floor of the shower. Then Stiles’ mouth was around Jackson’s cock, and Jackson was wondering why the hell he would’ve ever sacrificed this just because he was scared of being vulnerable. Getting head was amazing, and Stiles had gotten pretty damned good at it.

Jackson was dimly aware of hearing “ _Fuck_ ” tumble from his own lips. Stiles increased his pace in response. Stiles really liked it when Jackson swore. So Jackson did it again.

A whimper of disappointment escaped Jackson as Stiles pulled away for a moment to breathe properly and look up at him. “Have I told you that sucking you off is pretty much the best thing ever?”

Jackson groaned at the words and the cocky smirk Stiles gave him. He shut his eyes against the sight of Stiles like that: lips pink, eyes mischievous. Stiles’ hand was wrapped around Jackson’s cock, keeping up a steady pace while his mouth was off it.

“Open your eyes,” commanded Stiles. Jackson complied, but fixed his gaze on the shower curtain instead of Stiles. Stiles wasn’t having that. “Look at me.”

Jackson did look at him, then, and had to bite back a whimper. Stiles stopped moving his hand long enough that he could lick a slow, flat-tongued trail from the base of Jackson’s cock to its head. He smirked at Jackson again.

“There is nothing hotter on the fucking planet than you when you’re close to coming,” said Stiles in the rough voice he adopted when he was most dominant. His hand was moving again. “You’re so good, Jackson. Fucking _perfect_.”

And that was it. Jackson couldn’t take any more. Stiles didn’t have the chance go get his mouth back on Jackson’s cock before he was coming, gasping Stiles’ name and adding another “ _Fuck_ ” for good measure. His cum spilled on Stiles’ lips and chin. Some of it fell to his chest.

Once Jackson recovered, he gave Stiles an apologetic look, but Stiles was grinning up at him. He stood, wiped off his mouth, and spread the cum over Jackson’s chest, much to Jackson’s chagrin.

“There,” said Stiles, satisfaction in his voice. “ _Now_ you’re dirty.”

Weak-kneed, Jackson took the body wash from Stiles this time. He thought that once he was clean, Stiles would want him to return the favor, but Stiles insisted that it was late and that, unlike werewolves, humans needed at least a couple of hours of sleep to stay awake through Coach’s Business class.

Jackson smelled like Stiles’ shampoo and body wash as he fell asleep that night. It was strangely… nice.

* * *

STILES

“Stiles, all your friends say you’re the last person who saw her.”

His dad’s words settled heavily into Stiles’ head. He should’ve known. How could he not have known? Heather had been his friend since they were toddlers. She wouldn’t have seduced him and then run off without an explanation. She wouldn’t have disappeared from her own birthday party. Something bad had happened to her, and Stiles had gone home and bitched to Jackson about how she’d treated him. Not only was Stiles an idiot, he was also a Grade-A asshole.

This had to be related to the alpha pack. Stiles was sure of it. They needed Isaac to remember where the alphas were, and they needed him to remember _now_. Stiles had to find Heather. He _had_ to.

* * *

JACKSON

Jackson had thought he’d gotten over how there had been a horny slut’s scent all over Stiles the previous night. If nothing else, the shower should’ve put an end to that. And Stiles had been right; Jackson and Stiles weren’t _together_ (internal eye-roll), and Jackson definitely didn’t want that anyway. But Jackson and his wolf didn’t always agree, and seeing a condom fall out of Stiles’ pocket in the middle of class nearly made his eyes glow. He had to bite back a growl and ended up putting a crack in his pen from gripping it too tightly. He was so distracted he barely registered it when Stiles was called out of class to talk to the sheriff.

During lunch period Jackson sweet-talked a girl from his History class who’d been into him for a while (according to his heightened senses) into making out with him in his car. She clearly would’ve done a lot more, but he cited the need to get back to class as a reason not to take it further. He’d enjoyed kissing her. She was soft and warm and she smelled feminine and flowery. It felt good knowing he had the option if he wanted her.

But by the time he was halfway through his next class, Jackson felt pathetic. He didn’t want the option. He wanted Stiles. All he’d done was spend twenty minutes kissing a girl to try to convince himself that he could be as casual about fooling around with other people as Stiles could. And it hadn’t worked. The kicker was that, if he was honest with himself, he hadn’t done it because of the wolf. He’d done it because he was insecure. He’d done it because he was _jealous_.

That thought made Jackson sick. The lingering scent of the girl on his clothes didn’t smell so great now. He wanted to go home and shower. He wanted to crawl back into bed and bury his face in Stiles’ hideous ten-dollar shirt and sleep until life somehow sucked even just a fraction less. Their teacher was saying something to the class, Jackson was staring down uncomprehendingly at his textbook, and Stiles was five desks away, shaking one leg incessantly and chewing on his pen. Not close enough to smell.

Jackson focused his hearing, filtering out the sounds of twenty other people until he zeroed in on Stiles. His breathing, his heartbeat. His long, fidgeting fingers tapping on the desk. Familiar, Stiles-y sounds he hadn’t realized he knew so well until now. Jackson tried to clear his mind and think only of the memory of Stiles’ voice.

_Good. You’re good, Jackson._

Jackson would just have to be better. Better than some skank Stiles grew up with. Better than anyone and everyone else.

That’s what he’d always done anyway.

* * *

DEREK

Derek was _not_ happy about this plan. True, Isaac’s memories were their only lead to finding Boyd and Erica, but he’d already put Isaac through enough danger for this. It had only been earlier that day that he’d let Peter leave his beta shaking and in tears after ripping through his mind. Now, if Derek understood Deaton correctly, they might get close to drowning him. Was it fair to keep risking the life of one of his betas for the chance of saving two?

To top it off, Deaton and Scott and his pack of humans were involved now, which was exactly what Derek had been trying to avoid all summer. They might have been able to do this with just Deaton’s help, but Stiles was convinced that the alpha pack had kidnapped some girl he probably wanted to sleep with, and had demanded to be included.

But what other choice did they have? If Peter had really seen Isaac’s memories correctly, they were almost out of time.

Derek, Scott, Isaac, and Stiles had nearly finished filling the metal tub with water and ice before Jackson finally arrived. Derek forced down his annoyance at the fact that he’d texted Jackson over an hour ago, and yet again Jackson smelled like he’d taken a shower before coming over. Apparently ‘fashionably late’ was a way of life for Derek’s first beta. Derek made a mental note to have a chat with him about that later.

“What’s with the bath?” said Jackson, one eyebrow raised.

“We’re going to kill Isaac so he’ll remember stuff,” said Stiles, matter-of-factly.

“We’re not going to _kill_ him,” said Scott.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Sorry, _almost_ kill him.”

“Shut up, Stiles,” said Derek. He turned toward Isaac, who was taking off his shirt. “You don’t have to do this.”

“It’s fine,” said Isaac. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Isaac eased himself into the bath, and Deaton instructed Derek and Scott to hold him under the water. Stiles moved to the tub to hold Isaac’s legs if necessary, but Jackson got there first without being told to. Interesting. Maybe the whole ‘I want to help’ thing wasn’t just talk, after all.

Alpha instinct warred with Derek’s rational mind as he held his beta under the freezing water. He could hear Isaac’s lungs straining, feel his body temperature falling. Isaac fought, shifted halfway, and suddenly calmed. It was like he was hypnotized.

Derek listened, transfixed, as Isaac answered Deaton’s questions. There was a storm raging outside, and the lights flickered while Isaac’s fear spiked when Deaton tried to get him to remember something painful. As Isaac revealed what the alpha pack was doing to his betas, Derek began to feel sick. They were locked in a room together. If Derek couldn’t find them in time, they’d kill each other during the full moon. Isaac was starting to panic. Fear was rolling off him in waves, but Derek needed him to remember. They were so close. If Isaac didn’t remember, then Boyd and Erica would die.

“Isaac, where are you?” Derek was yelling at his beta, forcing as much authority into his voice as possible. Deaton was wrong; Isaac didn’t need to be coddled and kept calm, he needed his alpha to make him focus. “What did you see?!”

Words tumbled from Isaac’s mouth in a fearful stream. When he was done, they knew where the betas were being held. But Isaac had revealed another piece of information. One that made a pit of cold fear and guilt form in Derek’s stomach: Isaac had seen Erica. Dead.

Derek couldn’t afford think about that right now. He had to focus. Isaac could be wrong. And even if he wasn’t, they could still save Boyd. He looked around at the group. Isaac was drying off, Scott, Stiles, and Deaton were discussing how to break into the bank vault. Jackson…

Jackson had retreated from the tub, standing away from the others with his eyes trained on the floor.

“Jackson?” said Derek uncertainly.

Jackson’s eyes snapped up to meet Derek’s. When Derek took a step toward him, he flinched. Fear. He was afraid of Derek. An unintended consequence of yelling at Isaac, Derek guessed. Derek tried to make his expression and stance as nonthreatening as possible, but Jackson had gotten a hold of himself. He gave Derek a haughty look and went back over to the group.

Nobody else seemed to have noticed the exchange.

“How are we going to come up with a plan to break into a bank vault in less than twenty-four hours?” Derek asked no one in particular.

Stiles was consulting his phone. “Uh, I think someone already did.” He read from the news headline from the phone’s small screen: “‘Beacon Hills First National closes its doors three months after vault robbery.’ Doesn't say here how it was robbed, but it probably won't take long to find out.”

Derek felt a flicker of hope in his chest. Maybe they could actually do this. Maybe everything they’d done that summer, all the pain he’d put Isaac through, would pay off. Maybe tomorrow night he’d have his pack back--because maybe Isaac had been wrong about Erica--and he’d be helping them deal with the full moon, and then maybe they’d all be alive and safe together in the loft, and maybe he wouldn’t feel like such a failure as an alpha. Hell, maybe for once he wouldn’t feel like such a failure as a _person_.

But hope was dangerous, especially for Derek, so he tried to keep it in check. Things tended not to go Derek’s way. Why should they now?

“How long?” Derek asked Stiles impatiently.

Stiles gave Derek a cocky look. “It's the Internet, Derek. Okay? Minutes.”

But a _lot_ of ‘minutes’ of searching on Stiles’ phone, and then on Deaton’s computer went by, and still nothing. Derek spent most of that time pacing along a wall and trying not to put his fist through it. It was unbearable, being so close to finding them and doing nothing. He could feel his agitation echoed in Isaac and even Jackson, though Jackson was doing his best to focus on the screen of his excessively expensive phone and pretend not to care.

Finally Stiles said he needed to go home to work on it some more. Derek had to forcefully remind himself that Stiles’ father was the sheriff and that if he wasn’t home for dinner then Derek might have the cops involved in this as well. So Stiles and Scott left, and Derek told Jackson to go home, too, and drove back to the loft with Isaac. Even with werewolf healing, Isaac could use some sleep to help him recover from the trauma he’d been through that day, and there was nothing else they could do now except wait for Stiles to call. Which was great, because Derek was _so_ good at waiting.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you back there,” said Derek awkwardly, eyes fixed on the road. They had been driving in silence, which was pretty standard for them. Derek and Isaac didn’t really make small talk.

Isaac shrugged in Derek’s peripheral vision. “You did what you had to do. It worked, didn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“I wanna find them,” said Isaac. “Whatever it takes.”

Derek frowned. “That doesn’t mean I should put you in danger.”

“We’re always in danger, Derek,” said Isaac. Calmly, matter-of-factly. Like a kid whose life had been so consistently full of pain and fear that it had become the status quo.

Derek said nothing. It was true: they were always in danger. Being a werewolf was dangerous, whether you were born to it or turned. There were hunters, rival packs, and the constant threat of humans finding out about them. Derek had built his pack as quickly as possible after becoming an alpha to help guard against that danger. He had preyed on vulnerable teenagers, telling himself he was giving them an opportunity at a better life. What had he really given them, though? Was Derek a better guardian than Isaac’s father? Than a foster family?

“Besides,” said Isaac, “we’re pack. That’s what pack does.”

If Derek had had it within him to smile at that moment, he would’ve smiled at Isaac. Derek had done a lot more in his life that he regretted than that he could be proud of. A lot of what little good he’d done had been done for the wrong reasons, or he’d been well-intentioned but screwed things up in the end. But Isaac... Isaac might’ve been the one thing that Derek had gotten right.

With his eyes still trained on the road, Derek reached his right hand over and pressed his palm to the place where Isaac’s neck met his shoulder. A gentle pressure. Approval and reassurance from alpha to beta. Derek felt the tension in Isaac’s shoulders ease slightly under his hand.

“Yeah,” said Derek softly. He glanced over at Isaac, who was looking at him through glowing gold eyes. Derek let his own eyes pulse red in acknowledgement. “That’s what pack does.”

Then he withdrew his hand and stared forward into the dark again. They were both silent for the rest of the drive home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Agh, I am SO sorry for the delay in posting this chapter! End of term was even busier than I'd expected, and now I've been asked to work on a project that may make me even busier for the next three weeks. It's a fantastic opportunity, but it's going to cut into my fic-writing time. I hope to be able to keep a relatively consistent posting schedule even with all the stress and time constraints. Fingers crossed!
> 
> Anyway, I hope you liked this chapter! I did try to make it longer than usual to help make up for the delay. Integrating canon plot is tricky but I think it's going all right so far (If you're keeping track, we're now a little over halfway through the second episode of season 3). Thanks to everyone who has read, left kudos, and commented. Your feedback is really encouraging and helpful, plus I'm just glad to know that people are enjoying the fic :)
> 
> Thanks to my beta [Ismene_Jane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ismene_Jane), who really helped me with Derek on this chapter, and pre-post reader [AradiaFirehawk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AradiaFirehawk).


	9. Disunity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER NINE: DISUNITY

STILES

Scott was a ray of fucking sunshine. It was easy to be a ray of fucking sunshine when you had werewolfy healing that meant you weren’t exhausted if you stayed up all night searching through newspaper archives and looking at bank vault schematics. Stiles did not have werewolfy healing, so he was having trouble matching Scott’s relentless optimism in the face of almost certain failure and potential death.

On top of this, Heather was still missing, and Stiles couldn’t let himself think about that right now. Because if he thought about that right now, he might freak the fuck out, and Stiles had plenty of other things to freak the fuck out about right now. Like the fact that two teenaged werewolves were probably going to maul each other to death tonight if he couldn’t figure out how to break into a bank vault.

But then Stiles found the newspaper article with his dad’s photo in it, and that dangerous, fragile force that was hope forced its way back into his chest. Maybe for once it wouldn’t be crushed. Maybe they could actually save someone. Maybe.

School first. Because as dire as their situation was, Stiles was pretty sure that Miss Blake wouldn’t take the threat of a murderous pack of alpha werewolves as a legitimate excuse for missing class.

* * *

JACKSON

They met at the loft after school like they’d agreed to. Isaac was upstairs, still recovering from what the alphas had done to him (combined with what he’d had to go through to remember it), and Peter was sitting on the stairs being about as helpful as usual. Jackson stood off to the side while Stiles explained the blueprints of the bank to Derek and McCall, and how the robbers had broken into the vault.

Stiles was in his element, and Jackson couldn’t help admiring it a little. The kid was smart. As much as Jackson hated to admit it, Stiles was one of the only people, along with Lydia, who could compete with Jackson when it came to grades and test scores. And Stiles was at his best when he had something to analyze or puzzle out.

But now Derek and Stiles were arguing.

“What do you think you’re gonna do, Derek?” Stiles said skeptically. “You gonna punch through the wall?”

Derek crossed his arms and regarded Stiles with that special look of defiant irritation he saved especially for Stiles. This was not going to end well.

“Yes, Stiles,” said Derek, “I’m gonna punch through the wall.”

Stiles half-laughed. “Okay, big guy, let’s see it. Let’s see that fist. That big ol’ fist. Make it, come on. Get it out there, don’t be scared. Big bad wolf?” Stiles wrapped his hand around Derek’s wrist. Jackson eyed the two of them warily. This _definitely_ wasn’t going to end well. Stiles raised his palm in front of Derek’s fist. “Yeah, look at that. See that? That’s maybe three inches of room to punch through solid st--”

A pained cry came from Stiles as Derek punched his palm, shoving him backward into the table and sending him stumbling away, reeling. Jackson had to quell an unexpected instinctual flare of alarm. Sure, Stiles had deserved a lesson for being such a cocky loudmouth at Derek, but Derek could’ve broken Stiles’ hand. Jackson wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t until Stiles stumbled back toward the table to continue the discussion like nothing had happened.

“All right,” said Derek. “Are you in, Scott? Isaac’s still too weak, and Peter--”

“ _Peter_ isn’t up to fighting strength, either,” said Peter. “And honestly, Peter thinks this whole plan is insane. Putting yourself and one of your two remaining betas in danger to try to save a couple of others? Not worth the risk. Besides, one of them’s already dead.”

“We don’t know that,” said Derek fiercely.

“Can someone kill him again, please?” said Stiles, rolling his eyes at Peter. Jackson privately agreed with the sentiment, but said nothing.

“I’ll go with you,” said Scott. “They’re not my pack, but they’re my friends, and the alpha pack is a threat to all of us.”

“I’ll go, too,” said Stiles.

“Absolutely not,” said Derek.

“Seriously?” Stiles looked affronted. “So, what, I get to stay here with your psychotic werewolf zombie uncle while you guys go on a suicide mission?”

“And what would you do if you came with us, huh?” Derek snorted. “Bruise an alpha with your baseball bat right before he takes your head off?”

“This is such bullshit,” fumed Stiles. “You wouldn’t even know how to get in if it weren’t for me! Who stayed up all night doing research, huh? Who found out how the robbers got in and got the plans for the vault? It sure as hell wasn’t a werewolf!”

“You’re staying here,” said Derek firmly, drawing himself up to his full height to stare Stiles down.

Stiles turned to McCall. “Come on, Scott, back me up here.”

McCall frowned uncertainly. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea, Stiles.”

“Fine,” Stiles snapped. “The squishy, useless human will stay on lockdown. So what’s your brilliant rescue plan?

Derek took a calming breath and sighed it out through his nose. “I go down the air shaft first, punch through the wall, Scott and Jackson follow. We get Boyd and Erica--” Peter tried to interject a comment about Erica being dead, but Derek cut him off. “We get Boyd and Erica and whoever the other girl is and help them back out through the vent.”

“Nope,” said Stiles.

Derek raised an eyebrow at him. “Excuse me?”

“Nope, nuh-uh, no way,” said Stiles. “That is a really fucking stupid plan. Do you know, like, _anything_ about strategy?”

“This isn’t chess, Stiles, it’s a rescue mission,” said Derek. “In and out, as fast as possible.”

“And what if you all get in and can’t get out?” Stiles insisted. “What if you get ambushed?”

It was clear that Derek was trying very hard not to hit Stiles again. “Do you have a better idea?”

“Leave Jackson on the roof,” said Stiles.

Jackson wasn’t sure about Stiles’ logic but was too wary of Derek to cut in.

“No,” said Derek immediately.

“You need a lookout,” said Stiles. “Someone to keep the alphas from blocking the vent if they figure out what you’re doing.”

Derek’s voice was getting rougher as he grew more annoyed. “Yeah, I also need as many people as possible in the vault in case we get attacked there.”

“Better to have a guaranteed escape route than get trapped and have to fight them all off,” said Stiles, but Derek was shaking his head dismissively. He looked toward Jackson.

“Jackson, you’re coming into the vault with us.”

Jackson was caught off-guard. No one had addressed him pretty much since he’d shown up, and being brought into the argument made him nervous. He didn’t respond.

“You’re gonna be blind down there,” said Stiles, exasperated. “If you won’t leave Jackson or Scott on the roof then you definitely need me to come.”

“Not gonna happen,” said Derek. Jackson saw his eyes pulse red threateningly, as if that would have any effect on Stiles. It didn’t. “Jackson, you’re coming down with us,” Derek repeated, turning fully toward Jackson now.

All Jackson had to do was nod. Derek was his alpha. He was supposed to obey without question, as he’d been reminded several times recently. But instead, his eyes flitted to Stiles. Because Derek might be Jackson’s alpha, but he wasn’t the only person Jackson’s wolf obeyed now. Derek and Stiles didn’t agree about what Jackson should do, and Jackson found that he wasn’t sure who he should follow.

“Jackson,” Derek said firmly, waiting for a response. Jackson was lost. He just had to nod. Why couldn’t he do it? It was the simplest thing in the world.

Jackson looked to Stiles again for a split second before he was drawn back to Derek. Anxiety began to build in Jackson’s chest. His alpha was unhappy with him. Just like always. Jackson could never do anything right. He was a bad beta. He didn’t deserve a pack. His pulse was racing now. Jackson could hear his own blood rushing past his ears. He squeezed his eyes shut. He was a bad beta. He was a bad beta. He was--

_\--good, Jackson. You’re good. Fucking perfect._

Jackson opened his eyes and locked them with Stiles’. He wanted to see approval in them, but there was only fear there. Why? What did Stiles have to be afraid of?

It was only at that point that Jackson came back to himself, hit with the realization of what he’d just done.

“ _Oh_ ,” said Peter with a knowing smirk, catching on right after Jackson did.

“What?” snapped Derek. Jackson winced reflexively.

“Looks like you’re not the only one who’s been giving Jackson orders, Derek,” said Peter.

“What are you talking about?” said Derek, clearly becoming more irritated by the second.

“Our little Jackson has another alpha.” Peter sounded almost gleeful about the situation, but Derek’s eyes were cold as they shifted from Jackson to Stiles and back again.

“ _Stiles_?” Derek said incredulously. “He’s not a werewolf.”

McCall was staring, open-mouthed, at Stiles, who was now glaring at Peter.

“Congratulations, Stiles,” said Peter, giving Stiles a slow round of applause. “I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you.”

Derek glowered at Peter, who quieted but continued to smirk at Jackson and Stiles, gaze shifting between them. Jackson’s fight-or-flight response was starting to kick in as Derek’s impatient confusion gave way to anger.

“Jackson?” Derek crossed his arms and fixed his eyes on Jackson.

Jackson ducked his head in submission to Derek. “I’ll go into the vault with you.”

Derek’s eyes flashed red. “That’s not an explanation.”

“With all due respect, Derek,” McCall said tentatively, “maybe explanations can wait for later. We’re running out of time.”

Derek turned to Stiles, who took one quick, nervous look at Jackson before backing down. “I’ll stay here.”

There was nothing Jackson could do but obediently follow Derek and McCall out of the loft. Even if it might be a suicide mission, he didn’t dare to give Stiles a backward glance.

* * *

STILES

“Sooo,” Peter drawled. “You and Jackson. I _thought_ he was beginning to smell a little too clean.”

Stiles shifted uncomfortably, knowing his pulse would give him away no matter what he said. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Peter shrugged. “Well, I’ve never heard of a werewolf treating a human like an alpha before, but considering the fact that you and Jackson aren’t even _friends_ , the only two explanations I can think of are blackmail and sex. As unlikely as the latter seems, it would explain Jackson’s unnecessarily frequent bathing.”

Stiles said nothing. He walked over to the windows and paced back and forth anxiously, hoping that if he ignored Peter long enough he’d give up and leave Stiles alone.

“This is fantastic,” said Peter, clearly amused. “Isn’t Jackson Lydia’s ex-boyfriend? You know, I really ought to thank him sometime for breaking up with her. I mean, if she hadn’t been single and heartbroken I might not have been able to make her think there was really a new boy at school who wanted her. In fact, if Jackson hadn’t been so self-absorbed, I might still be dead. Funny how these things work out, isn’t it?”

 _Funny_. Stiles’ fingers were extra fidgety with the combination of anxiety over what was happening at the bank and irritation with Peter. He bit his tongue and kept pacing, eyes fixed on the skyline through the window.

“You had a crush on her, too, didn’t you?” Peter continued, and Stiles could envision the self-satisfied smirk on his face without having to look at him. “Do you and Jackson talk about her? No?” He chuckled. “She and I have a special relationship, too, you know. Do you want to know how she kisses? Granted, she was hallucinating and I was half-dead at the time, but it was still pretty enjoyable.”

_What?_

Stiles abruptly stopped pacing. Peter had _kissed_ Lydia? _Peter_ had kissed _Lydia_? No. No, that was too much. That was the rotten cherry on top of the melted, curdling sundae that was Stiles’ life right now. His stomach felt sick, twisted into knots.

“Shut up,” Stiles said to the window.

“I’m sorry, did I hit a nerve?” Peter said cheerfully.

Stiles turned around and fixed Peter with a fierce glare. “I said _shut up_.”

Peter laughed. Stiles walked back over to the high table and leaned forward on it, hiding his face in his hands. Everything was so _beyond_ fucked up right now. He hadn’t even thought about how all of this would affect Lydia. He hadn’t thought she’d ever find out. And now it was only a matter of time until she did. How could he have been so stupid? He’d jeopardized Jackson’s place in the pack _and_ his own relationship with Lydia for some (admittedly incredible) sexual activity.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he mumbled to himself between his fingers. Peter would hear it, but Stiles didn’t care. The thought was ricocheting through his mind. Everything with Jackson felt so strange and unreal now that other people knew about it. It wasn’t supposed to exist outside Stiles’ bedroom.

 _What happens in here stays in here_.

“I have to say, I’m impressed,” said Peter. “I knew the kid had serious abandonment issues, but you must have some balls if you showed enough dominance to get a beta wolf’s allegiance.”

Peter always knew exactly which buttons to push. Stiles went from anxious guilt to self-righteous fury in the space of a second.

“It’s Derek’s fault,” Stiles snapped as he lifted his head. “If he’d given Jackson an ounce of approval, maybe he wouldn’t’ve looked for it somewhere else. Derek makes betas and treats them like shit. What’s he given them, huh? Isaac has a new abusive dad, Jackson’s got another parent he thinks doesn’t want him, and Boyd and Erica are probably dead. God, next to him you look like fucking Alpha of the Year!”

“Yes, Scott is doing rather well, isn’t he?” Peter’s smirk hadn’t faltered in the least while Stiles had ranted at him. “I’ve been pleasantly surprised by him.”

Stiles scowled and turned back to the table, staring at the various papers without really registering what was on them. After about a minute of determinedly calm breathing, the anxiety began to creep back in. He had to try to fix this somehow. For Jackson’s sake if nothing else.

“Peter,” Stiles said to the table.

“Yes, _Alpha_?” said Peter sweetly. Stiles gritted his teeth and took another deep breath.

“Don’t let Derek kick Jackson out of the pack,” said Stiles, looking up at Peter. “He won’t survive as an omega.”

Peter smirked again. “But he’s got a big, strong alpha to protect him!”

Stiles took several deep, calming breaths before reluctantly saying, “Please.”

Peter made a big show of considering the matter. “I’ll see what I can do. I only have so much influence over my dear nephew, after all.”

Stiles might’ve thanked Peter if he’d thought for a second that Peter was being sincere. Peter always did what was best for Peter. The guy was going to do whatever he wanted no matter what Stiles said.

They lapsed into silence, and Stiles went back to pacing nervously by the window, his brain whirring through every possible thing that could go horribly wrong. He checked his phone for a text from Scott or Derek. Nothing.

“I can’t stand waiting around like this, y’know, it’s nerve-wracking,” said Stiles anxiously. “My nerves are wracked, they’re severely wracked!”

“I could beat you unconscious and wake you when it’s over,” said Peter helpfully.

“I just don’t understand it,” Stiles said, half to himself. “Why would the alphas wait around for the full moon, huh? Why not just kill the betas whenever they want to?”

Peter sighed. “Maybe they think it’s poetic.”

“They’ve already had three full moons to be _poetic_ ,” insisted Stiles.

“And here you’ve only had one full hour to be so--” Peter stopped mid-sentence. He got to his feet, looking alarmed, and went over to the table. “The vault, what are the walls made out of?”

Peter started shuffling through the schematics, impatiently asking Stiles where they could find what type of stone was used. Stiles found a stack of building information, which Peter practically attacked looking for the right page. When he found it, his eyes widened.

“Hecatolite,” said Peter, more alarm in his face than Stiles thought he’d ever seen there before.

“That sounds awful,” said Stiles. “Is it awful?”

“Get them on the phone. _Now!_ ”

* * *

JACKSON

No one had said anything since they’d left the loft. In the back seat of the car, Jackson could smell Derek’s anger and sense Scott’s stunned confusion and hear both their heartbeats in front of him, clashing out of sync with his own. It made Jackson want to bolt; launch himself out of the car, run down the street, out of Beacon Hills, out of California, out of the country again, and never come back. He was screwed. Derek would never forgive him for this. The second they were done with this ‘rescue mission,’ if they even survived it, Jackson would be kicked out of the pack. He was sure of it.

“Stop it, Jackson,” said Derek.

Jackson jumped. “What?”

“Stop panicking.” His alpha’s voice was stern, authoritative.

“I’m not--”

Derek cut off Jackon’s protest. “Don’t lie, either. I think you’ve done enough of that already.”

“Derek, I don’t think this is gonna help,” said McCall.

“Stay out of this, Scott,” snapped Derek.

Jackson wasn’t sure he’d ever hated McCall as much as he did in that moment. (And that was saying a lot.) When McCall stopped talking, it wasn’t because Derek had any authority over him. It was because McCall knew it was a lost cause. McCall had exactly what Jackson had wanted when he’d asked Derek for the Bite: the powers of a werewolf with no alpha or pack to answer to. McCall had never sworn allegiance to any other werewolf. The wolf who’d turned McCall wasn’t an alpha anymore. McCall was free. And the idea of that freedom that Jackson had wanted so badly terrified him now. He didn’t want to be an omega. He wanted a pack. He wanted an alpha. And he hated himself for wanting that. He hated himself for being so afraid that Derek would make him leave the pack. Because even if they barely tolerated Jackson, it was better than nothing.

“Calm down, Jackson,” said Derek. Jackson’s pulse was racing. His chest felt tight. “We’ll deal with this later. Right now I need you to focus and do whatever I say. Got it?”

“Yes, Derek,” mumbled Jackson, trying to quell the humiliation he felt at having to be the obedient beta in front of McCall. He started taking deep breaths, which made it difficult to ignore the scent of Derek’s anger, but he managed to slow his own pulse somewhat by the time they arrived at the bank. Derek was right; he needed to focus. Even if he might not have a pack when all of this was over, he at least needed to stay alive.

Jackson’s skin started crawling when he stepped out of the car and looked up at the full moon. He’d forgotten that it wasn’t just anger that let the wolf loose. All of his senses were heightening. He could feel the animal in him itching to break free.

“Remember your anchor, Jackson,” said Derek, eyeing him warily.

Jackson put his hand in his pocket and felt for the key Lydia had returned to him. As he focused on the way the grooves of the warm metal felt between his fingers, he calmed a little.

“Yeah,” said Jackson.

“Good,” said Derek. “Let’s go.”

* * *

DEREK

For a moment it had looked like the plan might actually work. Breaking into the vault had been easy, and Derek had been prepared to deal with his betas being in pretty bad shape when he found them. What he hadn’t been prepared for was hecatolite. And what no one could’ve ever prepared him for was--

“Cora?” Derek was frozen, staring at her in utter disbelief. It was impossible. He was seeing things. Even if she were alive, she wouldn’t be _here_. And yet-- “ _Cora_?”

“Derek,” his little sister growled, trembling, “get out. Get out _now_.”

The rest happened so fast. The vault door opened, a circle of mountain ash closed, and Derek, Scott, and Jackson were trapped with two rapidly transforming werewolves with the strength and fury of three full moons being unleashed within them. Derek found himself desperately trying not to hurt the sister he’d thought was long dead as she did her damnedest to rip into him with tooth and claw. He heard a pained cry from Scott and chanced a glance toward him. It looked like Boyd might be too much even for Scott and Jackson to handle together. Boyd had his claws in Scott’s stomach, and Jackson’s teeth buried in his bicep weren’t even fazing him.

“Look out!”

 _Allison_? What the fuck was Allison doing h--

“No, don’t break the seal!” shouted Derek as Allison knelt and reached for the mountain ash, but Allison was Allison and if Scott was hurt she’d do anything to stop it. The circle was broken, and Cora had fled from Derek’s arms and out the vault door with Boyd before Derek could react. No. No, no, _no_. Derek grabbed Allison’s arm, furious.

“Don’t touch her!” said Scott. He was clutching at his own stomach and bleeding from the mouth, but it looked like he’d be fine. Derek released Allison and gave Jackson a once-over with his eyes. Jackson was breathing hard and radiating anxiety, but most of the blood on him didn’t seem to be his.

Derek rounded on Allison. “Do you have _any_ idea what we just set free?!”

“You wanna blame _me_?” said Allison. “Well, I am not the one turning teenagers into killers.”

Her words cut Derek. She was right; anyone who got hurt or killed by Boyd was Derek’s fault. As much as he’d tried to blame Jackson for it, everyone who the kanima had ever hurt or killed was Derek’s fault, too. Derek had a lot of blood on his hands. But self-righteousness was rich coming from an Argent. First Kate, then Gerard, and then Allison’s mother, all making it their mission to kill Hales; almost killing Derek, despite their precious _code_.

“No. No, that’s just the rest of your family,” said Derek coldly.

“I’ve made mistakes,” said Allison. “Gerard is not my fault.”

“Well, what about your mother?” Derek demanded.

“What do you mean?”

And Derek wasn’t a big enough person not to take some pleasure in the horror on Allison’s face when he made Scott tell Allison that her mother had tried to kill them.

Derek allowed himself that one moment of petty vengeance.

“Jackson,” he said, and Jackson was next to him in a second. The fear radiating from Jackson caused a twinge of guilt in Derek. “Are you okay?”

Jackson nodded.

“Good,” said Derek. “I need you to call Peter.”

“What should I tell him?”

Derek closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, wincing when he caught the scent he’d hoped he’d been imagining.

“That Boyd and another beta got out. And Erica didn’t.”

Jackson gave him a questioning look, but nodded again and pulled out his phone. Derek gestured for Jackson to follow him and they left Scott and Allison to argue. Peter would know what to do about this, and they should send Isaac out to start looking for Boyd and Cora right away.

Derek was dimly aware of Jackson’s phone call as he made his way to the supply closet. Even with the spilled bleach and the stench of decay, even without seeing her face, Derek recognized his beta. Part of him had already known she was gone, back before they’d gotten Isaac to remember. Part of him had been feeling the loss, though he’d refused to completely give up hope.

_I am not the one turning teenagers into killers._

Erica was dead. And in some ways it hurt more than losing everyone in the fire, more than losing Laura. It hurt in his chest, in his gut, in his bones. Because maybe he hadn’t known her for more than a few months, but Erica had been Derek’s responsibility. He’d made her. And if he’d just left her alone to live her life as a human, she’d still be alive.

Jackson said nothing when Derek emerged cradling Erica’s body. No awkward questions, no pity, no condolences. Good.

“Meet up with Isaac and start tracking Boyd and Cora,” said Derek. “I’ll catch up with you soon.”

Peter could help with this. He’d probably done it before. Erica deserved more than an unresolved missing person’s case and an unmarked grave, but that was all Derek could give her now.

That’s what Derek gave the people he loved. Death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe how delayed this update got! First that project got even more intense (still not done), then I had to prepare for a presentation (still in progress), and now I've caught a cold. Blech! So, sorry for the obscenely late posting, but thank you for bearing with me :) I've got a holiday trip coming up at the end of the month, but things should smooth out soon. I'm hoping to get a decent amount of writing done within the next couple of weeks.
> 
> As with the last chapter, I did try to make this one a bit longer to make up for the wait, so I hope you liked it. No smut, but lots of fun emotional turmoil ;) If you're keeping track, we're now at the end of Season 3A, episode 2. You may have noticed that I've used a fair amount of dialogue taken from the show, though a lot of it is modified. I don't intend to follow the episodes to the letter, but it's providing a nice structure for now.
> 
> Thank you again to everyone who has read, left kudos, and commented. Your feedback is really encouraging and helpful, plus I'm just glad to know that people are enjoying the fic :)
> 
> Thanks also to my beta [Ismene_Jane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ismene_Jane), who really helped me with Derek on this chapter, and pre-post reader [AradiaFirehawk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AradiaFirehawk).


	10. Fraternity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER TEN: FRATERNITY

DEREK

Even with Isaac there now, Derek wasn’t sure they could do it. Boyd had already tried to kill two kids, and Cora had almost murdered a teenage girl. Now, at least according to Stiles, it looked like one of them had killed someone at the pool.

It was Derek’s fault. All of it. And it was only going to get worse if he couldn’t find a way to stop it. But how could they catch Boyd and Cora? How could they restrain two rabid, ultra-powerful werewolves until the sun came up?

“Maybe it would be…” Derek winced inwardly as he said it, “easier just to kill them.”

“Killing them isn’t the right thing to do,” said Scott in his annoyingly unwavering, black-and-white morality tone.

“What if it’s the only thing to do?” said Isaac, echoing Derek’s thoughts.

But Scott, being Scott, wouldn’t accept that. Which was how Derek found himself listening to a lecture from Chris Argent about how to track werewolves. Argent wanted to know if Derek felt like he had a lock on Cora’s scent. The answer (no) was more upsetting to Derek than he would’ve expected. He hadn’t seen her since before the fire, after all. And now, unless he could trap her, he was going to have to kill her.

But Argent actually had a good plan. Derek knew from experience how effective the hunters’ ultrasonic emitters were. Maybe they could do this after all. Trap them in the school’s boiler room until morning. Worse ideas had worked.

Then Peter showed up. Derek didn’t know what his uncle had ended up doing with Erica and he promised himself that he’d never ask. Peter hadn’t showered, and Derek could still smell lingering traces of death on him. He tried not to think about what had happened to her, tried not to think about how the same thing could happen to any of his other betas. It was too late for Erica, but not for the others.

Peter monologued about the futility of trying to catch Boyd and Cora, the fact that the alpha pack wanted Derek to kill his betas, and basically that the lives of human strangers weren’t worth as much as the lives of his pack. Derek tried to tune most of it out, like he generally tried to do when Peter got like this, but Peter had always been the devil on Derek’s shoulder. He could make the most horrific ideas sound perfectly reasonable. Derek had thought he’d learned his lesson about listening to Peter when it had led to Paige’s death. But Derek was painfully aware that Peter was a master of manipulation.

“Let Scott deal with it,” said Peter. “Let him be the hero of his morally black-and-white world.”

Black-and-white morality. Derek had always thought that about Scott.

“The real survivors, you and I,” continued Peter, “we live in shades of grey.”

Yes. It was about survival. Scott was young and naive and didn’t understand what sometimes had to be done to stay alive. He’d never been in a real pack, never had to take responsibility for betas. Unlike Derek, Scott hadn’t spent his entire life being hunted. His sheltered childhood had given him the privilege of moral certainty.

“Then again, even if you did kill them, you’re still an alpha,” said Peter with his ever-present smirk. “You can always make more werewolves.”

Derek knew he should never trust Peter, but that didn’t mean Peter was wrong. Peter understood how horrified Derek would be at the thought of treating betas as disposable; any sane werewolf would be. He’d said it to make a point, and it had worked. Derek couldn’t kill Boyd and Cora, no matter the consequences. He’d still try to trap them, still try to keep them from killing anyone else. But if it came down to it, there was no question in Derek’s mind: his betas were more important than humans.

When Scott and Derek somehow managed to trap the betas in the school boiler room after all, though, Derek let himself feel relieved. It wouldn’t have to come to that. They’d done it; Boyd and Cora wouldn’t kill anyone else. Except…

_You’ve got to be fucking kidding me._

If Boyd and Cora didn’t kill whatever idiot was in the boiler room of a public high school in the middle of the night, Derek was considering doing it himself at this point.

“Close the door behind me. Keep it shut,” Derek said to Scott.

“You go in there alone, and you’re either gonna kill them, or they kill you,” said Scott.

“That’s why I’m going in alone.” Derek resolved that there was no way he’d let Scott change his mind or come with him. There were already two teenagers’ lives at risk along with their potential victim; he wasn’t going to add a third. He was infinitely grateful when Scott let him go without argument, because they couldn’t afford to waste time.

Derek managed to get the human woman away from the betas, but it seemed that since Derek had taken away their prey, Boyd and Cora were going to kill each other if Derek didn’t stop them, and he couldn’t let that happen. Not after all those months searching for Boyd and Erica, all those years thinking Cora was dead already.

He cursed that stupid human for being there. He cursed himself for not sticking to his resolve that his betas were more important than humans. Now he was risking his own life and the lives of his betas to save some woman he didn’t even know.

Derek pushed Boyd and Cora apart and held them by their throats as best he could without choking them. Unfortunately, that meant he couldn’t pin their arms. Their claws tore into him until his shirt was shredded and soaked with blood. Until he’d fallen to his knees. With no sign of slowing down or stopping. There was no reasoning with them like there could’ve been if they hadn’t been kept from changing for months. No way to pull rank as an alpha and make them back down.

If someone was going to die, it should be Derek. It _would_ be Derek, if it came to that. He just had to stay conscious until the sun came up to keep them from hurting each other. He’d felt worse pain in the past, not just physical. Losing a pack member was like losing a limb, and the fire had left Derek feeling gutted and dismembered. He’d forgotten what that felt like in the years since then. Erica had made it all fresh. Derek wasn’t sure he could survive losing another member of his pack even if they didn’t kill him. This pain was nothing compared to that. Just stay awake, don’t bleed out. Just a few more minutes till sunrise...

Derek was half-surprised to find that he was still alive when Scott and Isaac opened the door. Boyd and Cora lay on the floor on either side of him, unconscious but breathing.

“Get them out of here,” he gasped, his chest knitting back together where claws had nearly ripped the skin from his ribs. All he wanted to do was to limp home and pass out and heal. But first things first.

Time to go see if they’d scared that woman to death.

Her heart was racing like a rabbit hiding from a fox, and she was eyeing him like he was a predator ready to kill. (He was sure his blood-soaked shirt wasn’t helping the situation.) Derek approached her slowly and as non-threateningly as he could manage. Her hand was warm and soft as he took it to help her up. Somewhere in the back of his head he registered that her cautious smile was beautiful.

How the fuck was he going to explain what had just happened to her?

* * *

STILES

In a macabre, self-centered way it was almost a relief when Lydia called to tell Stiles that she’d found a body. Isaac had already gone to help Scott, Jackson, and Derek track the escaped uberbetas, and Peter wouldn’t stop making suggestive comments about the whole Jackson Obeys Stiles Situation. Stiles fled to his Jeep, and as soon as he saw the first victim’s purity ring, the (overly) analytical part of his brain stirred.

After that, the clues started piling up. Scott’s mom called after the hospital had cleaned up the corpse of Purity Ring Guy. A werewolf wouldn’t strangle someone and/or bash their head in and/or slit their throat. That kind of murder wasn’t very… werewolf-y. Which meant it hadn’t been Boyd or Cora who’d killed Purity Ring Guy. So maybe…

“So maybe this is just one murder, I mean, maybe just some random coincidence,” said Stiles to Melissa as they stood over PRG’s body.

“I don’t think it was just one,” said Melissa with an ominous frown.

And Stiles was pretty sure he didn’t want to know why, because this town had seen _way_ too much murder already, both natural (if any murder could be called that) and supernatural, but he needed as many pieces of the puzzle as he could get.

“How come?” he asked, his curiosity overcoming his dread of the answer.

“Because that girl over there?” Melissa indicated another white sheet that presumably hid a second corpse from view. “She’s got the exact same injuries.”

Nothing could’ve prepared Stiles for what he saw when Melissa pulled back the sheet, but he was still completely blindsided. He hadn’t even known they’d found Heather’s body. As far as he’d been told, she was still missing. Did his dad not know about this somehow? Did he know and hadn’t told Stiles on purpose?

Melissa must have noticed the fact that Stiles’ eyes were locked on Heather’s pale, lifeless face, because she stopped in the middle of her explanation of Heather’s death and asked Stiles if he knew her. All he could manage was a weak, distracted nod. His eyes were starting to water.

Stiles was vaguely aware of telling Melissa who Heather was. Melissa was saying that they needed to call Stiles’ dad because Stiles was a witness, but Stiles couldn’t stop staring at Heather. He was thinking about the party. About how she’d tried to seduce him.

Then his eyes were drawn over to Purity Ring Guy’s body. Purity ring… Unless he’d broken that promise, he’d been a virgin. _Do you know what I want for my birthday? To not be a seventeen-year-old virgin._

_One’s an incident, two’s a coincidence..._

Holy shit.

Stiles’ brain kicked into overdrive. There must be another victim, another body or another missing person. He didn’t want to be right about this, but he was pretty damned sure he was. Coincidences like this weren’t really a thing that happened in Beacon Hills.

Melissa got him in to see a girl, Caitlin, whose girlfriend was missing. They’d gone to the woods to be alone, because Caitlin had roommates and her girlfriend lived with her mom. ‘Not exactly romantic settings,’ as Caitlin said.

 _Romantic_.

“You wanted to make it romantic...” Stiles pressed, as gently as he could.

“Yeah, you know,” said Caitlin awkwardly. “Because, um…”

“Because it was her first time,” finished Stiles. He said it as a statement, not a question, because he was positive now.

_Three’s a pattern._

* * *

JACKSON

When everyone was back at the loft and safe (or as safe as they could be, under the circumstances), there was a Hale Pack meeting. Jackson had thought that maybe they’d wait until Boyd and Derek’s sister were well enough to participate, or at least until everyone had a chance to get a little sleep, but apparently Derek thought Jackson had to be _dealt with_ as soon as possible. So Jackson sat on the couch while Derek loomed over him disapprovingly. Peter lounged on the staircase, and Isaac stood awkwardly off to the side while the two injured betas slept upstairs.

“Do you know why we’re here, Jackson?” Derek’s voice was even colder and more distant than usual. Jackson nodded solemnly.

“Answer me,” said Derek. Jackson flinched as his inner wolf cowered.

“Yes, Derek,” said Jackson obediently. “I know why.”

“Tell us.”

“I…” Jackson fought to stay calm and clear-headed. “I second-guessed your orders.”

“ _Second-guessing_ gets you a warning,” said Derek. “That’s not what you did.”

Jackson hesitated, swallowed. “I treated someone else like my alpha.”

“Yes,” said Peter with his usual smirk, “and quite the choice you made!”

“I don’t need your help, Peter,” snapped Derek.

Jackson eyed Derek warily. “What are you going to do to me?”

Derek sighed. “I don’t know. Stiles isn’t a werewolf, so it’s not treason. But if you’re going to be in my pack, you need to act like it. I can’t afford a divided pack, and you can’t have divided loyalties. You can only follow one alpha.”

“I know,” said Jackson.

“All right,” said Derek. “A pack isn’t a democracy, but I’ll consider what everyone thinks. Isaac?”

Isaac had been careful not to look at Jackson during the meeting, and when he spoke it was only to Derek. He clearly wanted to show where his loyalties lay.

“I dunno,” said Isaac. “He should’ve obeyed you. I have no idea what’s going on with him and Stiles and I don’t wanna know. But… like you said, Stiles isn’t a werewolf.” Isaac scratched at the back of his head like he always did when he was nervous or self-conscious. “We shouldn’t keep him just because he needs us, though.”

Jackson fought the urge to roll his eyes. This was pretty much what he’d expected. There wasn’t any love lost between him and Isaac, and even if he’d evened out a bit, Isaac still had a reputation for being self-serving, even ruthless. If Jackson was a liability, Isaac would want him gone. And Jackson couldn’t blame him, really; he’d probably do the same thing in Isaac’s place.

Derek nodded. “Peter?”

“Well, I can’t fault the pup for succumbing to Stiles Stilinski’s _many_ charms.” If Peter dripped any more sarcasm it would make a puddle on the floor. “He did obey you in the end. Of course, one weak wolf can jeopardize an entire pack, and we need to be as strong as possible now. So the question is, does Jackson make us weaker or stronger?”

“All right,” said Derek. “Jackson. What do you think I should do?”

Jackson hesitated. But of course, there was only one right answer.

“What I think doesn’t matter,” he said solemnly. “You’re my alpha.”

“Bingo,” said Peter, and Derek glared at him.

“That’s right,” said Derek. “I’m your _only_ alpha. If you agree to that, and act like it, you can stay in the pack.”

Jackson felt a wave of relief wash over him. He was humiliated and miserable, but at least he wasn’t an omega.

“Yes, Derek,” said Jackson, and bared his throat to reinforce his submission and loyalty. It felt wrong, doing it out of obligation and the fear of being alone, but Derek seemed to approve.

“Excellent,” said Peter with a smile. “One big happy family again.”

“One more thing, Jackson,” said Derek, and Jackson felt a prickle of fear seep back into him at the sharpness in Derek’s already icy tone.

“Yes?” he said uncertainly.

“You don’t see Stiles alone anymore,” said Derek. “You don’t call him. You don’t text him. You don’t interact with him in any way except at school and with the pack. If anyone sees you with him or I catch more of his scent on you than there should be, you’re out.”

Jackson swallowed the lump in his throat and ignored the smirk on Peter’s face and Isaac’s nod of approval.

“I understand.”

* * *

DEREK

He’d have to get more furniture, Derek thought to himself while he sat on the one couch, in front of the one small coffee table, worrying. It had been a rough night, to say the least, and with no indication of when the alpha pack might attack next, the smart thing to do would be to rest all day. Boyd was upstairs sleeping in Isaac’s bed. Isaac had insisted that he could sleep on the floor and hadn’t left Boyd’s side since Derek had come home.

Derek was supposed to be sleeping on the couch, since Cora was in his bed, but he couldn’t. Even though he was exhausted, he couldn’t even make himself lie down. All he could do was sit there, staring down at his hands, focusing on the sounds of three beta werewolves’ pulses and breath. The living members of his pack. Except for Peter, who Derek trusted far less than he could throw him, and Jackson, who Derek had been trying very hard not to think about since sending him home after the pack meeting. He’d triaged that fiasco as best he could for now.

“Hey,” said Cora softly from the bed, startling Derek. The downside to focusing his hearing was that it magnified her voice as well.

Derek looked over at her, still not completely sure she was actually there. With the morning light shining through the industrial windows behind her, she looked almost ethereal. At this point it was becoming hard to keep track of which of his family members were alive. First Laura and Peter, now this.

Derek went to the bed before Cora could try to get up. She was still recovering, and shouldn’t move. He sat down next to her on the edge of the bed, intending just to reassure her that he was there and make sure she was comfortable, but then he caught her almost-forgotten scent: the smell of pack and family and his bratty, stubborn little sister.

Hundreds of memories rushed through Derek’s head all at once, and without thinking he pulled her up into his arms and he was holding her tightly enough that it would probably have hurt her if she’d been human. It was bad for her injuries, but he couldn’t help it. He needed her to be close, needed to know she was real. She didn’t seem to mind. Her thin arms slipped around his waist and squeezed, and she hid her face against his shoulder.

“Cora,” he murmured into her hair. He felt his voice break with the painful relief of feeling her there with him, in his senses, in his bones. He didn’t understand how it was possible. “Cora.”

“Derek,” she said, and Derek loosened his hold so he could look at her. She was smiling, albeit tiredly, and it made Derek’s chest hurt. He’d thought he’d never see that smile again.

“How do you feel?” asked Derek.

“Like I got hit by a train,” said Cora, but she was still smiling. “If I’m remembering right, I think I owe you a new shirt. Did you heal up okay?”

“Yeah,” said Derek, unable to help smiling back at her. “Tired, but I’ll be fine.”

“You’d better be,” said Cora. “I didn’t spend years thinking you were dead to show up and accidentally kill you myself.”

She said it with humor in her voice, but there was a sincere concern there as well. Derek knew exactly how she felt.

“How did--” Derek started, but Cora shook her head.

“Can we save the conversation about where I’ve been all this time and what happened in the vault and all that crap for a little later?” She sighed wearily and pet Derek’s cheek, wrinkling her nose at his beard. He supposed she’d never seen him with one before.

Derek nodded.

“You got tall,” said Derek, trying not to let sadness creep into his smile. It was a bittersweet moment: he wanted to tell her that he barely recognized her, that she was beautiful, that she looked like their mother, but those thoughts hurt. As happy as he was to have her back, she reminded him of everything he’d lost. Including the opportunity to watch his little sister grow up.

“You got all muscley,” she countered. “And hairy!”

Derek laughed at that, which made Cora laugh in turn. Derek couldn’t remember the last time he’d genuinely laughed.

“Were you seriously planning on sleeping on the couch?” said Cora, one eyebrow raised at him.

“I didn’t want--”

“To aggravate my injuries or some shit like that?” said Cora. She rolled her eyes and moved over in the bed to make room for Derek. “Get in here.”

Derek smiled and crawled under the blankets with Cora. She snuggled up against his side, using his shoulder as a pillow. She rested her arm over his stomach like she was worried he’d leave if she didn’t hold onto him.

“You smell like a _man_ ,” she complained tiredly.

“You smell like a brat,” said Derek, feeling like the teenager he’d been when she was a little girl. “Go back to sleep.”

“Someone got bossy.”

“I’m an alpha. It’s my job.”

“Don’t let the power go to your head, Red-Eyes.” Cora was still teasing, but her voice was slower, softer. He could feel her muscles relaxing against him.

She was asleep again before Derek could respond. He was desperately exhausted, and he knew sleep would help him heal, but it still eluded him. A houseful of betas surrounded them, and his instincts were painfully aware that their safety was only temporary. He rested and dozed a bit with Cora close to him, but he wasn’t sure he could really sleep until the threat of the alpha pack had been dealt with once and for all.

* * *

STILES

Scott was taking the whole Nancy Drew and the Case of the Horrific Ritualistic Virgin Sacrifices situation better than Stiles was. Scott was focused on being relieved that Boyd and Cora hadn’t killed anyone, and yeah, Stiles was happy (for lack of a better word) about that, too, but at least it would’ve been less complicated and terrifying. Werewolves killing people was par for the course in Beacon Hills. Human sacrifice was very new and very, _very_ scary.

It didn’t help that one of the humans who’d been human-sacrificed was Heather.

“You sure you’re fine?” said Scott, his puppydog worried face with the eyebrows and everything set firmly in place. He hadn’t stopped making that face at Stiles since he’d seen Heather’s body.

“Yeah,” insisted Stiles. Scott had been at his place since they’d left the hospital, and while Stiles deeply appreciated his concern, nothing his best friend could do or say could help him right now.

Scott’s pocket buzzed. A text message.

“Let me guess,” said Stiles. “Derek put his alpha paw down and told Jackson he couldn’t be alone with me anymore.”

Scott checked his phone and raised his puppy eyebrows at Stiles. “Uh… yeah, actually.”

“Called it.”

“So…” Scott fidgeted awkwardly. There was a lot of explaining to be done, and Stiles didn’t have the physical or emotional energy for it now.

“I promise we’ll talk about it later,” said Stiles. “I just… I really need to sleep, man. If I lie down right now I might even be able to get like thirty-six winks in before my dad comes home and I have to pretend nothing happened last night.” He forced a tired smile for Scott’s sake. “Thanks for looking out for me.”

But when Scott left, Stiles stayed inescapably awake.

Heather was dead. Heather was _dead_.

Stiles had seen more dead bodies in his life (hell, just in the past six months) than any teenager should ever have to see, but even if you discounted the whole Horrific Ritualistic Virgin Sacrifices thing, this was different. This was _Heather_. A girl he’d known since he was three years old. A girl who’d just wanted not to be a seventeen-year-old virgin. Kidnapped on her birthday. Brutally murdered. Because Stiles had left her alone. Dead. Heather was dead. And Stiles was not remotely equipped to deal with that reality right now.

An urge entirely inappropriate for the circumstances welled up within him. The urge to dominate. Everything was utterly out of Stiles’ control right now. People were getting kidnapped and killed and he was the one surrounded by corpses instead of trying to save people like the werewolves and the hunters could. He was the one figuring out what was happening after it was too late to stop it. He was totally and completely fucking _powerless_.

Stiles needed to be able to take control of something. He needed to dominate. He needed Jackson there, more than ever. And Derek had just taken Jackson away from him over some stupid territorial alpha loyalty bullshit. Jackson could help Stiles focus. Jackson could give him something to control so he wouldn’t freak out about the things he couldn’t control. Jackson could make this better, if only just a little bit. But Stiles couldn’t have Jackson now. So he spent the precious little time he had left before he had to get up being bombarded by a thousand thoughts and theories and fears in his head, pacing and fidgeting and forcing down the threat of crying, while he tried so hard to think of the calm that came from glowing blue eyes.

 _It’s not about loyalty_ , he wanted to tell Derek. _It’s about sanity._ Stiles and Jackson had stumbled into something that helped them deal with the (often literal) lunacy that was life in Beacon Hills. Without it, things were going to get even worse for everyone.

* * *

JACKSON

When Jackson got to the loft the next afternoon (he’d let himself get some well-deserved sleep since it was Saturday, then avoided coming over for a while), he found it empty except for Derek’s sister. She was doing sit-ups on the floor, and didn’t even look over at Jackson when he shut the door behind him.

“Where’s Derek?” asked Jackson uncertainly.

Cora did a few more sit-ups before responding. “Out.”

Jackson tried his best to hide his anxiety. Being in the loft, especially since the pack meeting, set Jackson on edge. He could almost still smell Derek’s anger, see the fear in Stiles’ eyes when he’d realized Jackson had accidentally given away what they’d been doing. He’d used to just feel uncomfortable there, unnecessary. Now he felt unwanted.

“I’m supposed to check in,” he explained when Cora made no further acknowledgement of him.

“So you’re Jackson,” said Cora, still doing sit-ups. She said a few words between each of them. “I’m assuming you were--Hnn!--part of the rescue party.”

Jackson nodded, though she wasn’t really looking at him. Finally, Cora stopped and got to her feet. She grabbed a nearby towel and wiped some of the sweat from her skin.

“Sorry,” she said, “my memories of that whole fiasco are a little fuzzy.”

Jackson didn’t know what to say to that. ‘Fiasco’ didn’t quite cover the situation. He wondered if he should wait for Derek to come back, and how long it would be. His anxiety was starting to get the better of him.

“Come here,” said Cora as she finished toweling off and pulled a clean shirt on over her sportsbra.

“Why?”

Cora fixed him with a firm look. “Come. Here.”

The wolf in Jackson obeyed Cora before Jackson could stop it. Apparently, either he was going to start rolling over every time someone gave him an order, or the wolf considered another Hale to have some of Derek’s authority. Jackson moved to stand in front of Cora and waited for her next command, hating himself for it.

“Derek said to make sure you don’t smell like human boy or too much soap,” Cora said dryly. “I’ve got a better nose than he does anyway.”

Jackson bristled, hurt pride stinging within him. “Fine.”

Without so much as a heads-up, Cora tugged Jackson toward her by his shirt, pressed her nose close to his neck, and inhaled deeply. When she let him go, she gave him a thoughtful look. After a pause that made Jackson unreasonably nervous (he _hadn’t_ gotten near Stiles, after all), she said, “All clear.”

“Great,” said Jackson, taking a step away from her. “Can I go now?”

“No,” said Cora. “Sit.”

She indicated the couch, and again, without thinking, Jackson obeyed. Cora sat down next to him, a little closer than was necessary considering how big the couch was. Jackson’s nerves were fraying. Hales were unpredictable at the best of times, and he barely knew this one. If Derek and Peter were any indication, Jackson would be an idiot not to stay on guard around her.

True to Hale unpredictabilIty, Cora got an arm around Jackson’s back and pulled him close to her so that his face fell to the crook of her neck. At first he tensed up, his instincts telling him to get free from her surprisingly strong arms and run. But the first breath he took near her neck woke his wolf up instantly in a spark of recognition.

She smelled like Derek. Less musky and a little softer, more feminine, but still unmistakably Hale. She smelled like his alpha. Like… like _pack_. His reaction was so visceral it might have sent him reeling if Cora wasn’t holding him there.

A second breath and his eyes closed. A third and his muscles began to relax against her. His pulse calmed and evened out. And then she was running her palm over his hair, the back of his neck, his shoulders. Slowly, soothingly. Warm, soft, gentle.

It felt so good it _hurt_. It occurred to Jackson in that moment that he’d never had this before; he hadn’t had any kind of physical contact with another werewolf that wasn’t violent or impersonal, let alone a werewolf from Derek’s pack. _Derek’s pack_. Not Jackson’s pack. Derek and his betas tolerated Jackson, but he’d never been treated like one of them. He’d only really known Cora for less than five minutes and she’d already made him feel more accepted than any of the others had.

Was this how Derek was supposed to make Jackson feel?

Jackson’s chest and throat were starting to feel tight, and he was hit with the horrible realization that he was going to cry. He was going to _cry_ in the arms of a girl who’d just met him. He couldn’t decide if he felt embarrassed about it or just utterly pathetic. He wanted desperately to leave now and salvage what little pride he had left. The human part of him was mortified.

But the wolf didn’t want to leave his new packmate. So Jackson stayed, and Cora pet him and pressed her cheek to the top of his head while he cried against her neck. He didn’t sob, but tears seeped from his eyes for long enough that her skin was wet when he finally pulled away. She lifted his chin and flashed her wolf’s gold eyes at him. His own eyes pulsed blue in response. An acknowledgement of the pack bond.

“I’ll tell Derek you came by,” said Cora in a neutral tone. Jackson understood that to mean that he was being dismissed. It was a relief. He was grateful for the fact that she didn’t say anything about what had just happened. He didn’t think he could bear being made to talk about it. He left without another word passing between them.

The comfort Cora had given Jackson lasted for a few hours, but when it faded he felt worse than before. Now that he’d experienced a real pack bond, it hurt more that Derek wouldn’t give him that. What good was being accepted by another beta if his alpha rejected him?

The closer he got to other people, the more painful it was that Derek kept Jackson at arm’s length. Stiles had helped ease Jackson’s longing for an alpha who approved of him, but Derek had taken Stiles away. Cora had shown him what pack acceptance felt like, but it only highlighted what Jackson was supposed to be getting from Derek.

That night, Jackson had a horrible, soul-crushing thought: At least when he’d been the Kanima, he’d known how to make his master happy.

* * *

DEREK

“What the hell did you do to that kid?” demanded Cora before Derek had finished closing the door behind him.

“What?” He nearly dropped the bag of groceries he’d been holding.

“Your swimsuit model beta,” said Cora angrily. “What the fuck, Derek?”

Oh. Jackson. Derek felt the familiar, particular wave of annoyance he associated with his first beta wash over him. He sidestepped his sister and took the groceries to the kitchen. “I didn’t do anything to him.”

“Really?” Cora followed close on his heels. “Because he reeks of fear and neglect. Just stepping in this room scares him. There’s no way you haven’t picked up on that.”

Derek focused determinedly on putting the groceries into the fridge and their appropriate cupboards while Cora ranted at him. Yes, Derek had picked up on some anxiety from Jackson, but they’d never been on good terms with each other.

“We don’t have a great history,” he muttered.

“A great history?” Cora laughed humorlessly. “Screw _history_ , he’s in your pack now.”

Derek bristled. “Yeah, and he hasn’t exactly been an outstanding beta.”

“And you’re the perfect alpha?” Cora snorted. “How could you let him get that bad? I haven’t met a wolf so obviously starving for pack acceptance since the last time I came across an omega. An _omega_ , Derek.”

“He’ll be accepted when he earns it,” said Derek firmly, hoping to end the conversation. He didn’t want to fight with his sister on top of everything else, but she wasn’t an alpha. She didn’t understand what was at stake here.

“No,” insisted Cora. “You made him. He’s pack. He doesn’t have to _earn_ anything. Honestly, I’m not surprised about that whole treating-a-human-like-an-alpha thing now.”

Anger sparked in Derek. Did Cora honestly believe that Jackson treating Stiles like an alpha was Derek’s fault?

“Don’t tell me how to run my pack, Cora.” He flashed red eyes at her.

“Fine,” she snapped, reluctantly backing down. “I’ll shut up about it.”

She stormed off toward the stairs, and Derek had thought she was gone until he heard her voice from above him, softer now, almost sad.

“Ask yourself this, though, Derek,” she said. “How would Mom have treated him?”

It was like a kick to the chest. Before Derek could respond, Cora was gone, and he could hear the shower running upstairs.

Talia: the most respected and powerful alpha in California, maybe even the West Coast. She had always been a shining example of everything an alpha should be: wise, strong, just. She’d kept peace among the packs in the region and offered counsel to them. She had always dealt with her betas, family or not, wolf and human, with fairness and compassion.

Talia, his mother, who’d made Derek feel loved and valued every day from his birth to her death. Who’d smiled and told him his eyes were beautiful when they’d turned blue. _Different, but still beautiful. Just like the rest of you._ Who’d comforted him and shown him mercy when another alpha might have turned him away from the pack for what he’d done.

Talia, the kind of alpha other alphas wished they could be.

How would his mother have treated Jackson? For starters, she never would’ve given him the Bite in the first place. Talia had always been hesitant to turn humans under the age of eighteen, and even then she wouldn’t do it unless they were family or close family friends, and they asked for it knowing the risks. It was part of why she never would’ve agreed to turn Paige. Not everyone who got the Bite survived it, as Derek knew well.

But he’d ignored all of that when he’d become an alpha. Derek had given the Bite to Jackson, a sixteen-year-old boy who he’d barely known and definitely didn’t like, because the kid had demanded it, and had been useful to Derek, and might’ve helped him start his own pack. Derek had seduced (there were nicer words for it, but he should call it what it was) other vulnerable teenagers into accepting the Bite as well.

If Jackson had ended up as Talia’s beta somehow, though… She would’ve wanted him to be with the pack as much as possible. In an ideal world, Jackson wouldn’t have another family he needed to stay with (another reason not to give the Bite until adulthood), but seeing as that was unavoidable, she would’ve at least wanted Jackson with them as much as his schedule and his parents would allow. She would’ve told her other betas to befriend him. She would’ve spent time with Jackson on her own to make sure he was comfortable with her as his alpha and would come to her if something was wrong.

She would’ve never allowed Jackson to be afraid of her.

Derek knew that he could never be Talia. He was too young to have wisdom, too broken to have the strength to protect his pack, too vulnerable to serve justice. He didn’t believe in fairness after everything he’d been through, and he hadn’t been shown compassion in so long he wasn’t sure he knew how to show it to others. He’d thought that letting Jackson stay in the pack had been merciful, but maybe he’d never really let Jackson be a part of the pack in the first place. Jackson, who at the end of the day was still just a kid, had been through hell and back, and Derek hadn’t once thought to try to comfort him. Instead, he’d blamed Jackson for becoming the Kanima. He’d hidden behind the idea that ‘the outside reflects the inside’ instead of trying to help Jackson heal.

Derek was hit palpably then with a horrible, undeniable truth:

Talia would be ashamed of Derek if she could see him now.

He hung his head and rubbed at his eyes, the guilt threatening to overwhelm him. How could he have failed so completely as an alpha, as a son? He’d done everything wrong, and was still doing it wrong. He’d tried to justify his actions by reasoning that Talia hadn’t had to build up a pack on her own, hadn’t had to deal with the threat of something like the alpha pack kidnapping and killing her betas. Derek had to be tough on his betas if they were going to survive. He had to make sure they’d obey him without question.

The more he tried to pull his pack together, the faster they seemed to fall apart. He didn’t know how to stop it, and in the meantime people were dying. He’d lost Erica and nearly lost Boyd and Isaac. The alpha pack would keep coming after them, and Derek wasn’t strong enough to beat one of them, let alone five.

He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to fix what he’d done wrong. He didn’t how to be who he needed to be to protect his pack. He didn’t even know if it was possible.

But maybe… Maybe he knew where to start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have FINALLY updated! I'm very sorry for the delay and I thank you for your patience. Not only did I have a ten-day trip, but schoolwork and other projects have been consuming my life. The good news is that I've also made some progress on the next chapter, and very, _very_ much hope that I can post with little or no delay next week (depending on my and my beta's schedules).
> 
> Again, I did try to make this chapter a bit longer than some of the earlier ones to help make up for the delay. Plus I have to pile on the angst, you know ;) The fic is now concurrent with the end of Season 3A, episode 3. A bit of dialogue from the show, but not too much this time. As I've said before, I don't intend to follow the show to the letter, but it's a helpful framework for me. I hope you guys like Cora, as she's going to have a much bigger role in my fic than in the show. I feel like she didn't get enough screen time, especially with Derek, considering all that they've gone through.
> 
> Thank you again for your patience with the delay, and your kudos and comments. Your feedback really motivates me to try my best to post as often as I can. I'm so flattered to have as many readers as I do, and I hope you will all continue to enjoy the fic!
> 
> Thanks also to my beta [Ismene_Jane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ismene_Jane), who continues to be a big help with Derek, and pre-post reader [AradiaFirehawk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AradiaFirehawk).


	11. Anxiety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER ELEVEN: ANXIETY

STILES

Scott called that night after Stiles had gotten a bit of sleep (never had a weekend been so well-timed) to give Stiles the Werewolf News Update: Boyd and Cora were resting, but they’d be fine. The alpha pack didn’t appear to have pursued them, so it looked like maybe they’d have some time to regroup.

Then they talked about the Nancy Drew and the Case of the Horrific Ritualistic Virgin Sacrifices situation again for a little while, and Scott was kind enough not to mention Heather. Then the conversation lapsed into a tense silence until Stiles couldn’t take it anymore.

“Well this is reaaally awkward,” said Stiles.

“Yeah,” said Scott (awkwardly).

“So, um.” Stiles picked at a loose thread in his jeans, very glad he couldn’t see Scott’s face. “Are you totally freaked out by it?”

“I’m assuming you’re not talking about the alpha pack?” said Scott, clearly trying to keep the tone light.

“You assume right, sir,” said Stiles, still fidgeting with his jeans.

“I’m not gonna lie, it’s definitely weird.”

Stiles laughed nervously. “I’m not sure ‘weird’ really covers it.”

“I don’t think less of you or anything,” said Scott. “You know that, right?”

No, Stiles didn’t know that. ‘Less of him’ was actually _exactly_ what he’d been afraid Scott would think.

Stiles frowned. “I figured you might be kinda skeeved out or something. I mean, first off, it’s Jackson, second--”

Scott cut him off. “Dude, if you’re even, like, _slightly_ ashamed about this, knock it off.”

Stiles wasn’t sure what to say to that. Was Scott really going to just take the whole basically-secretly-sleeping-with-Jackson-for-weeks-and-weeks thing in stride?

“I definitely don’t care that it’s a guy, if you’re crazy enough to think that would bother me,” continued Scott. “And yeah, I’m surprised it’s Jackson, but I’m not really anti-Jackson or anything, especially now.”

“I would’ve told you if I could’ve,” said Stiles, a little less anxious now. He should’ve never worried that Scott wouldn’t be okay with this. This was Scott. He’d always supported Stiles. Why should that change just because it was a weird situation?

“I get the feeling Jackson wouldn’t’ve been too happy about that,” said Scott with a smile in his voice.

Stiles smiled, too; Scott’s smiles were contagious, even when you couldn’t see them. “I think he woulda murdered me and then gone back to London.”

Scott laughed.

“Oh, and on that note,” added Stiles, “can you not tell anyone else? Especially Lydia and Allison. I know you like to tell her everything, but--”

“I totally get it,” said Scott. “No problem.”

“Thanks,” said Stiles. The last thing he needed was to worry about what other people beyond Derek’s pack and Scott thought about all this. Especially Lydia.

After a pause, Scott said very earnestly, “Look, I’d never judge you, okay? You’re the smartest guy I know. You’ve got good instincts. If it was working for you and Jackson, then… awesome.”

“It was,” said Stiles, trying not to betray too much of his considerable frustration, “It really, really was.”

Scott made an exaggerated grossed-out sound.

“Not just like _that_.” Stiles felt himself actually blushing. “It just… it helped me deal with everything. I dunno. I wish I could explain it.”

There was a short moment of silence again, but it was a lot more comfortable.

“So, as your best friend, I gotta ask--” started Scott.

“You wanna know if I’m _in love_ with Jackson,” said Stiles.

“Yeah, I guess,” said Scott. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, though.”

“It’s fine. I’m not,” said Stiles, fairly confidently. Sure, he thought about Jackson a lot--not just in a let’s-dip-into-the-spank-bank capacity, though that was a major part of it--and he liked being around him when they were alone (for the most part), and they definitely had chemistry, and he cared about what happened to Jackson.

But love? That would require affection, and Stiles only came close to feeling that for the version of Jackson that he could bring out by dominating him. The rest of Jackson was still closed-off at best, cruel at worst, and there was still a big history of animosity between them. Even if Stiles could get over all of that, even if Jackson changed, Stiles was pretty damned sure Jackson didn’t--and wouldn’t--ever feel anything like that for him. And one unrequited romance was quite enough for Stiles, thanks.

“It’d be okay if you were,” said Scott, treading carefully.

“I know,” said Stiles. “But I’m not.”

“’Kay,” said Scott. “I’m not gonna ask about the whole human-alpha thing that happened because it sounds super complicated.”

Stiles snorted. “You have nooo idea.”

“Seems like Derek’s pretty pissed,” said Scott.

“Yeah,” said Stiles. “I think Jackson’s gonna be in time-out for a while.”

“Probably,” said Scott.

“Man…” Stiles sighed deeply, anxiety starting to creep back into him. “Derek is _not_ healthy for that guy.”

“Did Jackson say anything about how Derek treats him?”

“Nah, he doesn’t really tell me anything,” said Stiles, fidgeting with his jeans again. “But Peter said it and I bet Derek and the others agree: a werewolf treating a human like an alpha? That’s not natural.”

They talked for a little longer about actual teenager things, like homework and (of course) Allison. The call ended with Scott promising to stop by that night (since obviously Jackson wouldn’t be doing it anymore) and Stiles agreeing to call Scott again if he saw or heard anything about the alpha pack.

Stiles had a hard time falling asleep that night (yet again). He couldn’t stop thinking about Jackson and Derek and the alpha pack and the gigantic mess made out of other messes that everyone was in now. The more he thought about it, the angrier and more frustrated he got. By the time he’d finished breakfast the next morning (thank God for Sundays) he was practically seething, and while he had intended to go upstairs and finish his homework he instead found himself grabbing the keys to his Jeep and telling his dad that he was going out.

Derek’s sister opened the loft door with the expression of slightly annoyed neutrality that only Hales could manage.

“Where’s Derek?” said Stiles.

“Who’s asking?”

“The useless human kid who figured out how to bust you out of puppy jail,” snapped Stiles.

“Right,” said Cora. She hadn’t stepped aside, and as pissed off as Stiles was, he wasn’t stupid enough to challenge a werewolf he barely knew. Especially a Hale. “So you’re the human alpha, huh? Interesting.”

“I’m not an alpha,” said Stiles.

Cora quirked an eyebrow at him. “You’re scrawnier than I thought you’d be.”

“Hey, I’m not _scrawny_ , I’m _wiry_ ,” said Stiles. “Lean and tough.”

“Sounds like you’re describing a cut of meat,” said Cora.

Stiles narrowed his eyes at her. “Don’t get any ideas, wolfgirl.”

Cora smirked in a way that reminded Stiles of Peter. “I’d never dream of stealing someone else’s meal.”

“Cute,” said Stiles irritably. “Seriously, where’s Derek?’

“Pretty eyes, though,” said Cora, ignoring his question. “Nice mouth. I can see the attraction, I guess.”

Stiles opened his mouth to respond, but he heard Derek’s footsteps on the spiral staircase. He made a move to walk toward him, but Cora was still blocking his way. Derek went across the room to his bed without looking at Stiles.

“Really? You’re ignoring me?” Stiles said to Derek over Cora’s shoulder. “What are you, seven years old?”

Derek straightened his sheets, then walked over to the window side of the tall table where the blueprints of the bank vault and other paperwork still were and pretended to be studying them intently.

“You know, I love how you treating your beta like shit is somehow my fault,” said Stiles. Cora finally let him through, watching Stiles with interest as Derek continued to ignore him.

“What do you want, an apology?” said Stiles, facing Derek from a few paces in front of the table. “Okay, fine. I’m sorry you emotionally abused a teenage boy. I’m sorry you made him feel so small that he thinks he deserves it. I’m sorry you managed to pull off the miracle of breaking someone who was already broken.”

Stiles thought he saw Derek flinch, though his eyes were still fixed on the table.

“Congratulations on that one, by the way,” Stiles added bitterly. “I’m impressed.”

Stiles half-expected Cora to say something, but she just watched in silence as the words poured out of Stiles.

“You of _all fucking people_ , Derek.” Stiles wasn’t shouting, but his voice seemed to echo against the brick and glass. “You should know better.”

Stiles couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this angry. Regardless of how he felt about Jackson, this was complete and utter bullshit. Stiles knew what it was like to be bullied and belittled. He’d been lucky to have friends and family who reminded him that he was valued and kept his self-esteem relatively healthy. Sure, he’d enjoyed watching Jackson get taken down a peg when Scott became popular, but he wouldn’t wish a tenth of what Jackson had been through in the past few months on anyone. (Okay, maybe Peter, but he was a special case.) Stiles knew enough about Derek’s life to know how painful it had been, and instead of using that as motivation to help other people who were in pain, Derek was making it worse for them.

“You’re hurting him. Do you understand that?” Stiles’ throat was starting to feel tight. “You’re supposed to be protecting him and you’re _hurting_ him.”

Derek finally looked up at Stiles, face stony but eyes fierce.

“You can see all that just from fucking him, huh?” said Derek, voice carefully controlled.

“I can see it because I’m not _blind_ ,” said Stiles. “But I understand how it might be hard to see with your head crammed that far up your own ass.”

Derek growled, but Stiles wasn’t fazed. He was so completely done with being afraid of Derek Hale.

“Wanna know how I became the _human alpha_?” said Stiles.

Derek said nothing.

“I told him he was _good_ ,” said Stiles. “One word, Derek. One fucking word.”

“Yeah? Well here’s one fucking word for you, Stiles: _Leave_.”

“I’m not--”

“ _Now_.” Derek flashed his red eyes at Stiles, like that would scare him.

“Come on,” said Cora from behind Stiles. When he didn’t move, she grabbed his wrist and pulled insistently (though she didn’t hurt him) until he followed her to the door.

“I don’t care if you don’t _let_ him see me anymore,” said Stiles, furious at the idea that Jackson needed Derek’s permission. “I don’t care if you want to ignore everything I’ve ever done for you and treat me like a rival over some petty territorial bullshit. But if this gets any worse, I’m telling my dad. Even if it means telling him about werewolves, too.”

Stiles left before Derek could respond to his threat. He was pretty sure Derek thought he was bluffing, but he very much wasn’t. He also knew that if Derek realized he wasn’t bluffing, he’d probably do just about anything (including hurting Stiles in any way he could) to keep Stiles from blowing their cover. Stiles didn’t care. He didn’t fucking care. It had been bad enough finding out what had happened to Isaac for all those years--and Stiles was _not_ happy that Isaac was one of Derek’s betas, either--and he wasn’t going to sit by and watch another classmate be abused.

It was all well and good to say that their first priority was keeping everyone alive, but quality of life also mattered. What good was living until you were ninety if you were miserable the whole time?

* * *

JACKSON

Jackson had been sitting in his car for the past five minutes, working up the nerve to go upstairs. It had taken him a while of listening to the sounds of the building to realize that he could hear Stiles yelling at Derek in the loft. He was about to turn on some music and wait it out until he realized they were talking about _him_.

“You’re hurting him.” Stiles’ voice. “Do you understand that? You’re supposed to be protecting him and you’re _hurting_ him.”

“You can see all that just from fucking him, huh?”

Jackson’s face felt hot. It was bad enough that people knew about him and Stiles without hearing it said out loud.

“I can see it because I’m not _blind_. But I understand how it might be hard to see with your head crammed that far up your own ass.”

There was a pause, during which Jackson desperately hoped Stiles was done. He didn’t want Stiles to talk about him. He didn’t want Derek to know anything else about how fucked up Jackson had been recently. He hadn’t even wanted _Stiles_ to know about it, but Stiles was too perceptive for his own good, and Jackson had let his guard down with him.

“Wanna know how I became the _human alpha_?”

 _No_. Jackson cringed. Not that. Out of everything, Jackson especially didn’t want Derek to know that. That was private.

“I told him he was _good_.”

Jackson didn’t hear the rest of the conversation. He was too embarrassed and hurt and anxious to listen anymore. He wanted to go home and hide in his room until the school week started again. He never wanted to see Derek or Cora or the rest of the pack or even Stiles again.

But he didn’t have a choice if he wanted to stay alive.

When it sounded like they were done talking about him, Jackson got out of the car, unfortunately just as Stiles emerged from the nearest door to the building. Instinctively, because Derek had forbidden him from being near Stiles, Jackson backed up until he was against the side of his car. Stiles walked toward him, but stopped at a safe distance.

Jackson couldn’t say anything to Stiles, couldn’t risk Derek overhearing. Stiles clearly understood that, too, because he didn’t say anything either. He just stared at Jackson, fury radiating off him in waves and eyes shining like he’d been determinedly choking back tears. Jackson wanted to yell at Stiles, to tell him he had no right to tell Derek those things about him, that he didn’t need Stiles to defend him. But even if he could’ve said something out loud, the look on Stiles’ face deflated his anger.

The only other time Jackson had seen Stiles this upset was when he’d let Stiles punch him. _I hate you. I_ hate _you._ Back then, Stiles had been furious with Jackson. Now, he was furious _for_ him. Jackson had been convinced that the only reason Stiles would be mad at Derek for forbidding Jackson from seeing Stiles was that Stiles wanted to keep fooling around with Jackson. It was clear to him now that that wasn’t the case, and Jackson had no idea how to feel about that.

They stood there like that, a few feet apart, looking at each other for what felt like several minutes. Jackson was self-conscious under the intensity of Stiles’ gaze. He listened as Stiles took deep, calming breaths. As Stiles’ pulse began to return to normal. As the scent of anger faded. Jackson was transfixed.

Slowly, Stiles stepped forward, into Jackson’s space. Jackson’s nervousness began to rise. If Stiles touched him, Derek would smell it. But Jackson couldn’t move. Stiles was only a few inches away now, his hand braced on the top of Jackson’s car so he could lean in close. Close enough that Jackson could feel his body heat. Close enough to kiss him, which Jackson simultaneously hoped and feared Stiles would do. Their mouths were less than an inch apart before Stiles stopped. There were a few tense seconds where all they did was breathe. Stiles’ breath tickled Jackson’s lips. He wetted them reflexively, which he would’ve sworn caused Stiles’ pulse to skip.

Then Stiles tilted his head to the side, exposing the place where Jackson found his scent most easily. Unable to resist, Jackson angled his head ever-so-slightly toward Stiles’ neck--still careful not to make physical contact--and inhaled. Memories of blissful, voluntary submission, of comfort, of peace surged to the forefront of Jackson’s mind.

There was electricity in the slight space between them. Stiles stayed there for a few more breaths (Jackson could feel them against his ear and neck now) before pulling away and taking a step back. Jackson felt the loss keenly, but the calming effect of Stiles’ scent stayed with him. Then Stiles was looking into his eyes again.

 _I’m sorry_ , mouthed Stiles, no sound escaping him.

Jackson wondered what exactly Stiles was sorry for. Stiles was smart; he probably suspected that Jackson might’ve heard part of his conversation with (well, rant at) Derek, but he couldn’t know how much.

Not knowing how else to react, Jackson shrugged an acknowledgement of the apology.

Just then, Jackson’s phone chimed to tell him he had a text. It shook him out of Stiles’ spell. He checked his phone:

Unknown: Derek’s grumpy. Don’t come up. Meet you in the parking lot

The text could only be from Cora.

Jackson: Okay. Just got here

Jackson liked texting. He could lie in texts.

He looked back up. Stiles gave him a strange, sad sort of half-smile. He nodded a goodbye before getting in his Jeep and driving off.

Cora gave Jackson a quick once-over scent check and let him go. It bothered Jackson that Cora must’ve been there when Stiles had yelled at Derek--yet another person now knew very private information about Jackson’s life--but he wasn’t going to bring it up. He went home, finished his homework, ate Sunday dinner with his parents, and spent his evening reliving in his mind how it had felt to have Stiles that close to him again and not be able to touch him. To not be touched.

Jackson had thought that he’d be able to deal with not being alone with Stiles for a while. It was supposed to be just sex (and it wasn’t technically even that, yet). He’d gone without sex before, and if he needed it badly enough he’d figured maybe he could get it from that girl in his History class he’d made out with when he’d been pissed at Stiles. But like he’d learned that time, he didn’t want her. He wanted Stiles. He wanted someone to shut off his brain. He wanted to submit and be told he was good. No one could give him that except Stiles.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Jackson said in the direction of his open window. He’d been listening to the other werewolf climbing up the side of the house from his bed for the past few seconds. He didn’t have to look to know it was Cora who climbed through the window. The ‘girl-Derek’ scent gave her away when the wind blew in behind her.

“Good,” said Cora in the half-dark. “I don’t have the patience for pups.”

“‘Pups’?” Jackson rolled over to face her. “Seriously?”

“Pups, whelps, cubs, take your pick,” said Cora. She stood over him, arms crossed. “Oh, and if you have any dog jokes, keep them to yourself. You got to choose to be a wolf. I was born to it. I just choose to be proud of it.”

Straight and to the point. Wow, she really was Derek’s sister.

“What are you doing here?” said Jackson.

“Being pack,” said Cora, as if that explained everything.

“Excuse me?”

“Being pack,” repeated Cora. “Derek’s clearly not great at the whole alpha thing, or he’d realize how idiotic it is to tell a beta who treated someone else like an alpha that he’s still in the pack, then send him away with his tail between his legs to wallow alone.”

“I’m not _wallowing_ ,” said Jackson, with more petulance than he would’ve liked.

Cora arched an eyebrow at him. “So you haven’t been spending pretty much every spare minute wishing you were with that human kid or with the pack?”

Jackson narrowed his eyes. “I can handle being alone.”

“Says the wolf with _two_ alphas,” countered Cora.

“Stiles isn’t a werewolf,” said Jackson defensively. Trying to argue that Stiles wasn’t some kind of alpha to him would be pointless.

“ _Stiles_.” Cora rolled her eyes. “How does a scrawny human kid with a name that stupid dominate a werewolf?”

Jackson felt his face grow hot at the word _dominate_ , but if Cora noticed, she didn’t say anything.

“Maybe it takes stupidity to be that fearless,” mused Cora.

Jackson was very eager to change the subject.

“So what does ‘ _being pack_ ’ mean?” he asked.

“Staying close. Hanging out. Bonding.” Cora shrugged. “Whatever you wanna call it.”

“Great,” drawled Jackson.

“Don’t be such dickhead about this, Jackson,” said Cora after an exasperated sigh. “We both know you’re hurting and that I can help. So you can sulk like a kicked puppy and make me watch you suffer all night, or you can swallow your pride and accept the fact that you need me. Either way, I’m not leaving till morning.”

They looked at each other in silence for a few moments. Jackson debated with himself internally before giving in. He didn’t know Cora well yet, but he did know her well enough to know that she was being completely honest, and that he wasn’t going to be able to get rid of her in any case. He shifted back a bit to make room for her on the bed, but she didn’t sit down. Instead, she crawled in with him. Jackson was taken aback, and Cora didn’t help matters by reaching for Jackson’s waist and trying to pull him closer to her.

“Don’t,” said Jackson reflexively. He pushed her arm away from him, gently, but decisively. He wasn’t ready for that yet. The wolf in him wanted it, wanted his new packmate to put her arms around him like she had before and make him feel like he mattered to her and to the pack. But Jackson wasn’t just a werewolf. He barely knew this girl, and physical intimacy that didn’t involve sex was something he very rarely gave to people.

“Sorry,” said Cora, sounding… amused? “I forget it’s different for humans. _Boundaries_.” She didn’t comment when Jackson scooted a bit farther away from her, and made herself comfortable in the warm spot where Jackson had been. “You’d never know Boyd and Isaac were human a few months ago, the way they’re sharing a bed now.”

“Lahey’s clingy. He’d never leave Derek if Derek didn’t make him,” said Jackson. “Either that or they’re fucking.”

Cora looked confused. “Boyd and Erica--”

“I was kidding,” said Jackson. “Though I guess you never know.”

“So all of Derek’s betas are into guys?” Cora teased.

Jackson’s face felt hot again. “No.”

“Not you?” She sounded skeptical. “I thought--”

“Just Stiles,” said Jackson.

He tried not to make it sound judgmental or homophobic, because he definitely wasn’t. He just knew himself. He knew who he was attracted to. And it felt very important to him that people didn’t label him incorrectly, assume he was gay, or maybe even bi. Because he didn’t think he was. It was like… Stiles was Stiles, and Stiles happened to be male. Jackson was into girls. Girls and Stiles.

“Fair enough,” said Cora with a shrug.

Jackson liked that. He liked that she was blunt, but not pushy. It took a lot of pressure off him, especially since he couldn’t lie to her. Jackson felt at ease around Cora. Her warmth and her scent were comforting, even though she wasn’t touching him. He felt his pulse start to slow, and his eyelids were getting pleasantly heavy for the first time in days.

“Think you can sleep now?” said Cora in a hushed tone. Like she knew that he’d been sleeping only fitfully and very little since the pack meeting.

“Maybe,” murmured Jackson, eyes closed.

“Good,” said Cora. “Don’t wanna have dark circles under your eyes when you see that human boy with the dumb name at school.”

Jackson might’ve had a comeback for that if he weren’t so exhausted. Instead, he drifted into unconsciousness feeling calm and safe. It wasn’t the peace that Stiles gave him, but it would have to be enough.

* * *

DEREK

Derek made a point of being at the loft when Jackson came over after school the next day, even though he trusted Cora to take care of it now. Jackson stood by the door while Derek made sure his scent wasn’t different than it should be. Derek had half-expected Jackson to give him a smart remark or at least roll his eyes or look impatient, but Jackson didn’t say a word. He didn’t look at Derek. He barely even moved. He just waited.

Stiles’ words echoed in Derek’s head: _breaking someone who was already broken_. Derek frowned.

“I’m not doing this to punish you,” said Derek. “But I can’t let you be alone with him yet.”

Jackson nodded sullenly.

“We need to be united,” said Derek. He wanted Jackson to understand that he’d never meant to actively hurt him. He was trying to protect his betas. He’d just... fucked it up completely. But admitting that to Jackson would involve showing more weakness to his beta than he was comfortable with. “The alpha pack--”

“I know,” said Jackson, then immediately shut his mouth. He’d clearly remembered that he shouldn’t interrupt his alpha.

Derek gave Jackson a long, appraising look. He studied Jackson’s posture, his expression, his scent. Cora was right.

_He reeks of fear and neglect. Just stepping in this room scares him._

“You’re afraid of me,” said Derek.

Jackson didn’t deny it. There was no point; Derek would know he was lying. There was something painfully pitiful about Jackson’s complete acceptance of Derek’s mistreatment of him. It wasn’t that much different from Derek’s acceptance that he was a fucking failure as an alpha.

“Don’t be,” Derek said, before he realized the counterproductiveness of commanding that. “I mean… I don’t want you to be. You shouldn’t be.”

Jackson was still silent. The guilt that Derek had felt when thinking about how Talia would’ve treated Jackson was heavy in Derek’s gut, combined with everything Stiles had said (using the term loosely) to him the previous day. How could Derek expect Jackson not to be afraid of him? Derek had always been pretty violent toward him, and now he essentially held Jackson’s life in his hands. If Jackson didn’t have a pack, he’d be vulnerable, even if Scott decided to try to help protect him from the alpha pack.

Derek moved closer to Jackson, and Jackson’s posture indicated that he was fighting very hard to hold his ground. When Derek put his hand on Jackson’s shoulder, Jackson flinched and shut his eyes. Like Derek might _hit_ him.

Derek nearly pulled his hand away on reflex; being physically abusive might’ve been the failing Derek was most ashamed of. Even though he’d told himself he was doing it for a good reason, breaking Isaac’s arm had been one of his worst moments.

“Look at me,” said Derek. He tried to make the command sound as nonthreatening as possible.

Jackson’s eyes snapped open.

“I’m not going to exile you from the pack,” said Derek.

Jackson’s expression was wary, like he was expecting Derek to add a qualifier: ‘I’m not going to exile you from the pack, _but_...’ or something. Derek shook his head and squeezed Jackson’s shoulder gently. Jackson stayed perfectly still, obediently keeping his eyes on Derek’s face. The moment felt fragile, like it would make the difference in whether Derek had any hope of fixing things with his beta. Stiles’ words surged to the forefront of his thoughts.

 _I told him he was_ good _. One word, Derek. One fucking word._

“You’re a good beta, Jackson,” he said, keeping a reassuring hold on Jackson’s shoulder. “You don’t have to be afraid of me.”

Jackson stared at Derek like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, and it made the guilty feeling in Derek’s insides twist. He’d never told Jackson that he was a good beta. Never even told him he’d done a good job on something. Derek had been hard on Isaac, Erica, and Boyd, but he’d tried to make sure they knew that he was pleased with them. Never Jackson, though.

Derek considered Jackson for a moment before cautiously (so he wouldn’t scare him) reaching to ruffle Jackson’s hair. He gave it a few rough pats: a way of showing the wolf in Jackson his alpha’s approval without getting uncomfortably affectionate with the human Jackson. Derek was relieved when he could feel a fraction of Jackson’s anxiety dissipate.

The contact felt strange to Derek at first (since he’d never touched Jackson before except to threaten him), but then his alpha instincts asserted themselves and he could feel the bond between him and his first beta. Despite everything, that connection was undeniable, and it calmed Derek a little as well.

“You should hang out here more,” added Derek, managing something that felt slightly like a smile. “If you want.”

That’s what Talia would want. Jackson should be treated like the rest of the pack. If Derek was going to try to build unity among his pack members, physical proximity was a good way to start.

“Okay,” said Jackson.

Derek tried to hide the extent of his relief. Jackson had accepted his peace offering.

“But can I go for now?” said Jackson cautiously. “Dinner with my parents.”

“Of course,” said Derek. “One more thing, though.”

Jackson tensed up again, clearly expecting something negative. A reminder that earning Jackson’s trust would take time.

“You can text him,” said Derek. “No calls yet.”

The guilt that was still heavy in Derek’s stomach was eased somewhat by Jackson’s palpable relief.

Jackson nodded his understanding and said, “Yes, Derek.” Then he turned to leave. Derek listened patiently as Jackson went downstairs, got into his car, and drove away. He stood there holding on to the warm feeling that had come from making his beta happy (or at least happier), even if only by lifting a restriction Derek himself had imposed. It was a small step, but still significant.

“What made you decide to do that?” asked Cora from the top of the stairs. She’d listened to the whole thing, just like Derek had been sure she would. Her feet were light on the metal steps as she walked down them.

Derek shrugged. “You, I guess.”

“And the kid with the stupid name?”

Nothing got past Cora. Derek rolled his eyes.

“Good,” said Cora. “About time.”

“I’ve been kind of an asshole, huh?” said Derek. This was something he would only ever admit out loud to his sister.

“I think that’s an understatement,” said Cora with a mischievous smile.

“Thanks,” said Derek, unable to completely hide an answering smile.

“You should talk to the human kid, too,” said Cora. “He’s smarter than he looks. Gutsy, too. I can see why he and Jackson happened.”

Derek forced down the annoyance he still felt at Stiles and the whole situation. Despite the fact that Stiles had been right, that didn’t make getting yelled at by a seventeen-year-old any less frustrating or guilt-inducing. It was difficult to just stop seeing someone who’d gotten his own beta’s allegiance as a rival, even if Stiles was only human.

“Give me some time,” said Derek, grudgingly.

“I don’t think we have much of that, unfortunately,” said Cora.

Derek frowned, reluctant to ask Cora his next question. He did it anyway, because Derek was used to having to do things that tore him up. “Do you think I can fix what I did to Jackson?”

Derek knew he needed to atone for how he’d treated Jackson. He knew he needed to repair that relationship, both to help Jackson and to unite and strengthen the pack. He also had a selfish hope that it might make him a better alpha, and maybe even give him some semblance of comfort (happiness, as usual, was too much to hope for). But there was so much damage to undo.

“Yes,” said Cora. “But it’ll take time.”

Derek sighed deeply, feeling worry and guilt threaten to take over yet again. “Like you said, we don’t have much of that now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! In appreciation of your patience and as an apology for the insanely late update last time, I give you a chapter that is both early and long! I am also doing this to celebrate the fact that I FINALLY finished the huge project that caused the major delay in the first place. I still have a lot of schoolwork over the summer, but my schedule should be more consistent for the next month or so.
> 
> Timeline-wise, this chapter falls in the weekend and Monday after Season 3A, Episode 3, as there is apparently a fair amount of time between episodes 3 and 4. I have recently stumbled upon [this fantastic timeline on the Teen Wolf wiki](http://teenwolfwiki.com/Timeline), which I intend to use as an aid as I move forward, though I won't stick to it strictly. Its writer(s) did an incredible job with it!
> 
> Thanks to all of you for reading, and as always, special thanks to my beta [Ismene_Jane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ismene_Jane), who is seriously great at helping me with Derek, and to my pre-post reader [AradiaFirehawk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AradiaFirehawk).


	12. Amity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER TWELVE: AMITY

STILES

Stiles spent most of the time after the school day ended researching the Threefold Death. He accomplished a nigh-miraculous feat of willpower in finishing his homework first, and the only way he was able to make himself do it was to remind himself that if his grades started to slip, his dad would know something was wrong. He also had a nice, normal dinner with his dad, again so it wouldn’t seem like anything was wrong.

But something was _very_ wrong. The Threefold Death was pretty hard core, even in the world of ritualistic human sacrifices. The level of optimism it would take to think that this would stop after three murders would border on delusion. Stiles wanted more than anything to tell his dad about the connections he’d figured out, to help him solve the murders. But he couldn’t think of a way to do that without also telling him about the alpha pack, which would mean revealing the existence of werewolves. Forget a can; that would be like a friggin’ _reservoir_ of worms.

Stiles would just have to try to figure this out as fast as possible and help the ‘good’ (to use the term loosely) werewolves defeat the ‘bad’ werewolves with minimal casualties.

He _also_ had to make sure he didn’t end up the next virgin to become a ritualistic virgin sacrifice. No big.

Of course, that was assuming he still counted as a virgin. Where did ritualistic human sacrificers draw the line on virginity? And what if--

Stiles’ panicked thoughts about how his lack of having had ‘real’ sex could literally get him killed were interrupted by a text message alert. He extricated his phone from where it was buried under a pile of papers and read the text, which was from an unknown number.

Unknown: Derek said i could text you

Hunh. Stiles gave his phone a suspicious look before typing a response.

Stiles: Jackson?  
Unknown: Who the fuck else would it be

Stiles snorted. Yep. Definitely Jackson.

Stiles: A trap  
Unknown: Fine ask me something  
Stiles: Whats jacksons special mantra  
Unknown: Stiles is human dont rip his guts out  
Stiles: Hey jackson!  
Unknown: Hey  
Unknown: How do i know its you? Derek gave me the #

Stiles thought for a moment before responding. Jackson was going to kill him for it, but it was too good to pass up.

Stiles: I gave you a blowjob in my shower the other day

About a minute went by before Jackson texted back. Stiles had a fantastic mental image of Jackson blushing and cursing Stiles’ name.

Unknown: Fine its you  
Stiles: Sec lemme add your #  
Stiles: K good to go  
Jackson: Afraid youll lose it and never talk to me again?  
Stiles: Nah afraid i might mix you up w/my 2 other fucktoys

Maybe if would be for the best if Derek never let Jackson see Stiles again. At this rate, being ritually sacrificed might be less excruciating than what Jackson would do to Stiles. Of course, in for a penny, in for a pound...

Stiles: So you gonna send me dirty pics or what

* * *

JACKSON

Stiles: So you gonna send me dirty pics or what

Jackson gaped at his phone. Stiles was even more shameless in text than in person. And that was saying something.

Jackson: You wish  
Stiles: Lame  
Stiles: Guess you’re immune to my charms when you can’t smell my manly musk  
Jackson: Guess so

But Jackson was _not_ immune to Stiles’ texts. He’d had enough contact with Stiles that he could imagine Stiles’ facial expressions and tone of voice. After having very little contact with him lately and then being so close to touching him yesterday, even a casual, detached form of communication was significant.

Stiles: Come on, not even one pic?  
Jackson: Seriously?  
Stiles: Just my favorite of your many attractive qualities?  
Jackson: No dick pics  
Stiles: Great but not my favorite

 _Great but not my favorite_. It took Jackson a minute to remember what part of him Stiles seemed to like most. He hesitated, but made up his mind and pulled up the camera on his phone. He concentrated hard until he felt his eyes glow and snapped a shot. Unfortunately, he’d forgotten that werewolf eyes and cameras didn’t get along. In addition to the blue glow, there were lens flares over his eyes. He sent Stiles the picture anyway.

Jackson: No idea how Im gonna take my senior photo  
Stiles: Still a good pic  
Stiles: God youre so fucking hot its disgusting  
Stiles: (like you need a bigger ego)

Oh God, Stiles was _flirting_ with him. It was ridiculous and stupid and surreal. The worst part was that it was working. Jackson felt himself smile reflexively as he imagined the words in Stiles’ voice. He debated with himself for several minutes before he let himself give in to the surreality and type something he absolutely would never have said in person:

Jackson: Youre not bad either  
Stiles: Lies and slander  
Stiles: You just like me for my smell and my amazing BJ-giving skillz  
Jackson: Not true  
Stiles: Flattery will get you everywhere

Jackson frowned. He was aware that Stiles didn’t have a positive body image. Most of the time it didn’t come up when they were together because dominating made Stiles confident, but every now and then his self-consciousness seeped through. Maybe Jackson didn’t have a ‘type’ when it came to guys (considering the only one he’d ever wanted that way was Stiles) but it wasn’t like Stiles was an objectively unattractive guy. Maybe Stiles hadn’t realized he’d grown out of being the scrawny kid with baggy clothes and a buzz cut.

Jackson: Im serious  
Stiles: Clearly in our time apart youve forgotten  
Jackson: Fine send me a pic then

After about thirty seconds, Jackson received a photo of Stiles making a ridiculous and very unattractive face.

Jackson: A real one jackass

It was a few minutes before Stiles responded. Jackson imagined him trying to fix his absurdly fluffy (grabbable) hair and taking half a dozen pictures and then deleting them. Finally, one came through. Just Stiles’ face, simple and open with dark eyes and a slight smile. He looked good. And not just in a this-guy-dominates-me-and-that’s-hot kind of way, in a this-guy-is-genuinely-sexy way.

Jackson: For a guy whos right about a lot of shit you have no clue about yourself

Another couple of minutes passed before Stiles responded.

Stiles: Thanks

Jackson didn’t know what to say to that. Sincerity wasn’t really a thing he did well with most people, let alone Stiles. Luckily, Stiles was determined to change the subject.

Stiles: So no calls yet?  
Jackson: Derek said no  
Stiles: Rats. Was hoping to whisper sweet nothings into your ear  
Stiles: Well, sexy nothings  
Stiles: Sexy somethings  
Stiles: Filthy dirty talk basically  
Stiles: The dirtiest talk

If Jackson wasn’t careful this was going to turn into sexting. Did he want it to? He wasn’t sure if talking about sex would make things easier or harder (no pun intended) if he didn’t know when he could see Stiles again.

“Gross,” said Cora from the window, startling Jackson. He’d been too distracted to hear her climbing up. “It smells like horny male in here.”

Jackson ignored Cora’s comment, but did have to hide a slight blush.

Jackson: Coras here  
Stiles: Ugh tell girlderek to fuck off  
Jackson: You know I cant  
Stiles: Fine. Im gonna go shamelessly masturbate to that scandalous pic you sent me  
Stiles: Okay maybe a little shame  
Stiles: But not a lot because its totally worth it

Stiles was going to pay for that one later.

Jackson: Bye stiles  
Stiles: Bye jax  
Jackson: Call me that again and you wont have fingers to type it  
Stiles: Idle threats  
Jackson: Im putting down the phone now  
Stiles: Give girlderek a big ole hug for me

Jackson did put the phone down then and looked up to find Cora giving him the Hale Eyeroll.

“Is it safe to get in your bed yet?” she drawled.

“It’s my bed,” said Jackson. “I’m not responsible for what happens if you invade my space.”

Cora shrugged out of her jacket and kicked off her shoes before crawling in bed with him anyway, and Jackson was very thankful that her presence had chased away any lingering arousal from his text exchange with Stiles.

“How long are you going to keep coming over here?” Jackson asked as Cora pulled the blankets up over her shoulders.

Cora shrugged. “Until you trust me enough to admit that you actually like it when I do.”

Jackson didn’t respond. Now that Cora was here, texting with Stiles seemed strange and out of character. Too friendly, too normal, too much of a teenage _relationship_ thing. Jackson did not _flirt_ with Stiles. Hell, he didn’t even really _talk_ to Stiles if he could help it. As Jackson thought back over what they’d said, the pictures and everything, he started to feel uncomfortable about it. He resolved to be more on his guard if Stiles texted again. Which he inevitably would. Because he was Stiles.

Unfortunately, Cora had bad timing.

“Thought you should know that your human kid stuck his neck out for you the other day with Derek,” she said with a slight smile. Jackson knew this, of course, but Cora didn’t know that Jackson had heard part of it.

Jackson bristled. “He’s not ‘my’ anything.”

“Fine,” said Cora, unperturbed. “ _The_ human kid.”

“I didn’t ask him to,” said Jackson. Thinking about Stiles yelling at Derek the previous day brought back a lot of the embarrassment he’d felt about the personal information Stiles had told Derek. He hadn’t been able to be angry about it at the time because Stiles had been so upset and so _close_ , but that didn’t mean he wasn’t pissed that Stiles had said those things. It was worse knowing that Cora had heard them, too.

“I didn’t ask you to help me and Boyd in the vault,” said Cora, “but I’m still grateful.”

“So what are you saying?” said Jackson defensively. “I should write him a fucking thank-you card?”

“Okay, what’s with the even-more-hostile-than-usual you?” said Cora, one eyebrow raised.

Jackson did feel hostile. He suddenly really didn’t like the role Stiles was playing in his life now. He didn’t want a defender or a friend or someone to send him flirty texts. He just wanted Stiles to make him feel good and turn his brain off. Actually, he wanted _not_ to want that. He wanted not to be so desperate to have Stiles’ attention that he’d pine for any scrap of it he could get.

“I don’t need Stiles to stick up for me,” said Jackson, sitting up in bed because he was too restless to lie there. “I don’t need him to do anything for me. I don’t need _him_.”

“Lying to a werewolf is kind of silly,” said Cora, unfazed by Jackson’s outburst.

“I don’t understand,” said Jackson. He rubbed at his face in frustration. “I don’t fucking understand.”

“Don’t understand what?” said Cora. “Why you need him?”

Cora was too perceptive for her own good.

“I can fuck whoever I want,” said Jackson vehemently. “Why… Why _him_?”

Cora shrugged. “Some betas just want to roll over for an alpha. There’s no shame in it.”

But Jackson _was_ ashamed. Stiles was just a human. He was surprisingly dominant, but he was still just a human, and one Jackson had never liked. Stiles had been able to take advantage of the fact that Jackson was desperate to submit, but Jackson didn’t need a surrogate alpha anymore. Derek was finally starting to accept him.

“I don’t want to _roll over_ for Derek,” protested Jackson.

“Good,” said Cora. “Because I don’t need that mental image.”

She was trying to put him at ease, but Jackson didn’t want to be placated.

“Look,” said Cora, “stop fighting what you are. You’re not just a werewolf, you’re a _teenager_. Part of why it’s not a good idea to give teenagers the Bite is all the hormones and teen drama. Submission and aggression can get tied up in sexual attraction, especially if your alpha isn’t your family.”

Jackson didn’t respond. Great, Jackson got to be all needy and temperamental about Stiles because he was the first alpha his confused teenage beta wolf self had submitted to?

“Plus it’s not like humans don’t like to submit sometimes, right?” said Cora. “Maybe you would’ve wanted that even if you weren’t a werewolf.”

“I didn’t want to before,” said Jackson, a little more sullenly than he would’ve liked.

“Don’t worry about ‘before’,” said Cora. “Be who you are _now_. If you need him, accept it. _Enjoy_ it. Derek will come around soon, and then you can go back to rutting with your ridiculous human mate and everybody will be better off.”

Jackson stared at Cora in alarm. “My _what_?”

“I’m teasing you, Jackson,” she said, smirking. “You’re seventeen. Mates are for life.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake… Jackson rolled his eyes. “Werewolves are so fucking weird.”

“Yeah, well, this weird werewolf is going to sleep,” said Cora.

She yawned, which made Jackson yawn, too, and when she tugged at his arm until he lied down again, he didn’t resist. They settled into the bed with a slight distance between them. Her presence calmed Jackson more effectively than he would’ve expected, and it only took a few minutes for him to fall asleep.

When Jackson woke up in the middle of the night with Cora pressed close along his side and her arm draped over his waist, he made the conscious decision (after debating with himself for a few minutes) not to pull away. He wasn’t ready to admit it to her, but he did like that she was there. She was warm and she smelled familiar in a way someone he’d only known for a few days shouldn’t. He didn’t feel as safe with her as he did with Stiles--a ridiculous thought considering a werewolf would be much better at defending him than a human--but he felt protected.

Having her close felt… right. Jackson was _supposed_ to be with his pack. Not just for strength or protection, but for support and companionship. It dawned on him as he lay there with her that this was why he hadn’t been able to stay in London. He’d thought that his unhappiness there had stemmed from the trauma and guilt he’d experienced from being the Kanima combined with missing his parents and Danny and Lydia. He’d thought the feelings of alienation and loneliness had come from living in a foreign country.

But now he recognized all of it as an intense longing for pack. Just like his need for an alpha’s approval had caused him to submit to Stiles, his need for pack had made him miserable until he’d met Cora. Wasn’t there any part of him that the wolf didn’t control? Maybe he didn’t have a master anymore, but he was still beholden to inescapable instincts. If he gave in to them he’d be happier, but the price was the self-reliance and superiority he’d always striven for. It meant swallowing his pride, which is one of the most difficult things Jackson could do.

Cora stirred. Being so close to him meant she could hear changes in his pulse and breathing, and he’d become more tense and anxious over the past few minutes.

“Shhh,” whispered Cora sleepily near his ear. She placed her palm on Jackson’s chest and ran her hand repeatedly over his heart. “You’re okay.”

It wasn’t until she’d fallen back asleep that her words from earlier echoed in his head:

 _Stop fighting what you are_.

* * *

DEREK

_You should talk to the human kid._

Yeah, easier said than done. Derek had been sitting in Stiles’ Jeep for ten minutes, waiting for him to come out to drive to school and trying to figure out what to say to him. Stiles was in such a rush that he didn’t notice Derek was in the passenger seat before he’d gotten in and slammed the door behind him.

“Hey,” said Derek.

Stiles nearly jumped out of his skin when Derek spoke. Derek got a special kind of pleasure out of scaring Stiles.

“Why are you here?” said Stiles, annoyed. “I’m gonna be late for school.”

“So drive,” said Derek, rolling his eyes.

Stiles gave Derek a suspicious look, but turned on the engine and started driving toward the high school. After about a minute of silence during which Derek endured listening to Stiles tap his fingers incessantly on the steering wheel while Derek was still struggling to figure out what he wanted to say, Stiles spoke.

“If you’re here to threaten me about how I said I’d tell my dad if you kept hurting Jackson, don’t bother,” said Stiles. “I’m not scared of you.”

“That’s not why I’m here,” said Derek calmly, determined not to get sidetracked.

“Really?” said Stiles. “All right then, go on, spit it out.”

“I, uh,” Derek struggled with the words. He really, _really_ didn’t want to say them. “I wanted to... thank you, actually.”

Derek bit his tongue when Stiles did an exaggerated double-take.

“I’m sorry,” said Stiles. “I must be having a stroke. It is a statistical impossibility that Derek Hale just _thanked_ me. I should probably pull over and call 911--”

Derek growled in his throat, then glared when Stiles smirked at him.

“ _There’s_ the Derek Hale I know and have ambivalent feelings about!” said Stiles.

And just like that, the tension between them began to ease. Derek realized that being at odds with Stiles had actually been bothering him. Maybe they weren’t good friends, but they’d been allies for a while now, and Derek had gotten used to having the infuriatingly headstrong teenager and his obnoxious chatter around. Stiles’ resourcefulness and bravery had saved Derek’s life and others on multiple occasions, and his sarcasm, energy, and wit had diffused high-tension situations and created an emotional buffer for Derek that Derek had taken for granted.

“I’m not a threat, Derek,” said Stiles earnestly, causing Derek to look over at him. “I’m not gonna take him away from you or anything.”

“I know,” said Derek.

“He wants to be your beta,” said Stiles.

“I know,” repeated Derek, a little more firmly. Because logically, he knew it was true. Even if Stiles tried to monopolize Jackson, Jackson was Derek’s beta, and he’d made it clear that he wanted to be a part of the Hale pack (such as it was). Stiles could dominate Jackson, but at the end of the day he was still just a human. It wouldn’t be enough for Jackson.

“I just…” Stiles made a frustrated sound, fidgeting again as he avoided Derek’s eyes by focusing on the road. “I just _want_ him. Like, so, _so_ bad.”

Derek bit back a laugh at the flush in Stiles’ cheeks. “Well, yeah. You’re a teenager.”

Stiles heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I am painfully aware of that fact.”

“Look,” said Derek, hoping to hide his amusement in a more serious tone, “I need to fix things with him before I can let--”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” said Stiles dismissively, causing Derek to raise his eyebrows. Stiles sure liked to push his luck. “Pack unity, alpha-beta loyalty, yadda yadda yadda. Can I at least call him, though? I’m not completely convinced I’m not texting with some creepy old guy sitting in a dark basement in his underwear.”

Derek hid a smile by looking out the window. He really had missed Stiles.

“Yeah,” said Derek. “Yeah, okay.”

“Cool,” said Stiles. “You should, uh, probably get out of my car now. Seeing as it’s super creepy when an older guy hangs around a high school, and you can’t seem to stop doing it.”

Derek rolled his eyes, but opened the car door and got out. “See you around, Stiles.”

“Yup,” said Stiles, winking at Derek as he gathered up his backpack and headed toward the school. “Whether I want to or not!”

Derek watched as Jackson followed him in a minute later, determinedly avoiding Stiles. Derek frowned. Whatever was going on between those two, it was clearly more than just sex or Jackson’s beta instincts finding him a surrogate alpha because Derek hadn’t been there for him. Maybe there was no point in Derek getting in the way of it more than he had to. It looked like Jackson had taken Derek’s point about pack loyalty seriously.

It would be… nice, Derek decided, if they could all get along--or at least _tolerate_ each other--somehow. The alpha in Derek needed his pack united, but so did the human in him.

* * *

STILES

Stiles tried to play it cool during the school day and not focus on the fact that Derek had given him permission (the thought that he _needed_ permission was annoying, but still) to call Jackson. He spent most of his classes puzzling through the Ritualistic Virgin Sacrifices issue (on which there had been no news nor progress since he’d figured out it was happening) and wondering why the alpha pack hadn’t made another move yet. After school, he dutifully went home, did his homework, and had dinner with his dad. Then he spent half an hour psyching himself up to call Jackson even though there was really no reason to be nervous. By the time he was able to pick up the phone and scroll through his contacts he was fidgeting so much he had to walk around the room with the phone because he couldn’t sit still.

“Stiles?” Jackson sounded alarmed, like the only reason Stiles would be calling him was to tell him something was wrong. Which Stiles supposed was a logical assumption, all things considered.

“What are you wearing?” said Stiles in a fake sultry voice, because it was funny and he knew it would annoy Jackson.

There was a pause before Jackson’s irritated voice responded. “You can’t be serious.”

Stiles smirked to himself. “Maybe half-serious.”

“I don’t do phone sex, Stiles,” said Jackson. And even though Jackson sounded cranky it was nice to hear his voice saying Stiles’ name again.

“Shucks, I was hoping to make some extra cash,” said Stiles. “My Jeep needs some repairs and the job market is really tough right now, especially for teenagers.”

Stiles wasn’t sure what reaction he’d been hoping for from Jackson, but the one he got was much more hostile than he’d expected.

“Is there a reason you called me?” said Jackson, like giving Stiles eighteen words was a huge inconvenience and he had a dozen better things to be doing than talking to Stiles. Stiles frowned.

“I dunno,” said Stiles, trying to sound nonchalant. “Derek said I could.”

Jackson’s impatience was palpable now. “Okay…”

Stiles tried not to let his frustration seep into his voice. “Am I not supposed to want to talk to you?”

“I don’t know what you think there is to talk about.” Jackson was using the detached, self-important tone he had used to talk down to Stiles with back when Stiles was a nobody. Back when Stiles used to let Jackson bully him. Well, Stiles wasn’t that kid anymore.

“The hell is your problem?” said Stiles.

“I’m not really interested in having a friendly chat with you,” said Jackson in that same infuriating tone. “In case you forgot, we’re not friends.”

“You’re plenty friendly with me when your dick’s in my mouth,” said Stiles coldly.

A part of him regretted saying it, but a much bigger part of him gloried in the fact that the words immediately shut Jackson up. Maybe a better person wouldn’t have stooped so low, but Jackson was being a complete asshole for no fucking reason. (Well, no reason beyond the fact that he was Jackson and he was always at least _kind of_ an asshole.)

“What, does it make you uncomfortable when someone talks about it?” said Stiles, his anger rising. “You know, I’m not exactly proud of what we’ve been doing either, but at least I can say it out loud. Does it _bother_ you how much you love sucking my cock? Are you _embarrassed_ that you let me do pretty much whatever I want to you? Are you _ashamed_ that you want the spazzy loser you used to bully to fuck you until you can’t think straight?”

“I don’t--” Jackson protested, but Stiles cut him off.

“Yes, you do. You want me to _fuck_ you,” said Stiles, taunting Jackson now. “You want it so bad it scares you. And someday you’re gonna beg me for it, and when I give it to you you’re gonna _love_ it.”

“Shut u--” Jackson was furious now, but Stiles talked over him.

“I know you, Jackson,” said Stiles. “I know you a lot better than you want me to. And I might be the one person in the whole fucking world who actually understands what you need.”

“Don’t act like I’m a fucking charity case,” said Jackson, voice steady but full of anger and resentment. “You get plenty out of it, too.”

“Oh, I absolutely do,” said Stiles, feeling a perverse pleasure from knowing that his words were getting to Jackson. “And you know what? I have thoroughly enjoyed every single fucking second of it. The difference between you and me is that I have the guts to admit it.”

Jackson was silent again. Stiles could imagine him fuming, having no idea how to respond. He took the opportunity to get in one last dig.

“You know what, why don’t you just come find me when Derek takes off your leash?” said Stiles. “Clearly you need to be put back in your place.”

The call dropped. Jackson had hung up.

Sleep was even more elusive than usual that night. Stiles’ self-righteous anger soon gave way to guilt, then insecurity and dejection. Calling Jackson had been a really, really bad idea. As much as Stiles hated to admit it, Jackson did have a point. What had Stiles expected? A friendly chat? More flirting like they’d done over text? That wasn’t how things worked between them. In fact, the only way things worked between them was when they were alone together, when Stiles could stare Jackson down and make him let go of all his pride, make him submit, make him feel good. Without being able to look into his eyes, without being able to touch him, maybe there wasn’t any point in interacting with Jackson at all.

* * *

JACKSON

Jackson didn’t realize immediately what felt different about the loft the next time he went there. It wasn’t until Derek walked by and Jackson didn’t cringe internally that he realized it was because he wasn’t afraid to be there anymore. He wasn’t exactly comfortable, but his instincts were no longer telling him to get out of there at the first opportunity.

Cora looked up from where she was reading on the couch and smiled at Jackson. It diffused a bit of the tension he’d been feeling all day thanks to the fight with Stiles over the phone the previous night. It had been bad enough that he hadn’t been able to sleep well after the call (Cora had texted to say she couldn’t come over, which couldn’t have been better timed) without also having to be near Stiles at school for most of the day. He’d been able to smell Stiles’ residual hostility even though Stiles had been ignoring him even more resolutely than usual.

“I have to go see Peter,” said Derek, pulling on his leather jacket. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

“Have fun,” said Cora sweetly, to which Derek rolled his eyes. It was like they were both ten years younger.

Derek surprised Jackson by casually patting him on the shoulder on his way out of the loft. Jackson would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that it felt good. He found a small part of himself wishing that Derek would stay.

“Come here,” said Cora to Jackson, though not in the commanding deputy alpha voice she’d used when they’d first met. Jackson went over to the couch because he wanted to, not because he’d been told to.

“How was school?” said Cora, mimicking a parental tone as she gave him a quick scent-test to make sure he didn’t smell like Stiles. This felt mostly like a formality now, like they weren’t worried about him disobeying anymore.

Jackson shrugged. “School-like.”

“I hear you’re one of the best students, but you sure don’t act like it,” teased Cora. She rubbed his hair like he was a dog, then made a face at the gel he put in it. “Ugh, you should stop using this stuff.”

“You should stop telling me what to do,” countered Jackson.

Cora sniffed at Jackson again and gave him a concerned look. She must have smelled how upset he’d been all day. No one had a better nose than Cora. “You okay?”

“Just tired,” Jackson said, even though he knew Cora would be able to tell he was lying. Luckily for him, however, they were interrupted before she could press the issue.

Voices and pulses in the hallway heralded the arrival of Isaac and Boyd. Boyd had healed enough to go home (Jackson didn’t want to know how they’d explained his summer disappearance to the police) and back to school, but Isaac still lived at the loft. The way Cora’s eyes lit up at seeing Boyd sparked a slight pang of jealousy in Jackson. Logically, he understood that being kept prisoner together for that long would make Cora and Boyd really close, but Cora was the only person Jackson felt comfortable with in the pack, and Jackson wanted to be special. Jackson always wanted to be special, in everything he did.

“Hey, Jackson,” said Boyd, somewhat awkwardly.

The other betas clearly hadn’t expected Jackson to be there. Jackson didn’t have any feelings about Boyd one way or the other, since he barely knew the guy apart from some lacrosse team interactions, but he wasn’t feeling particularly friendly toward Isaac at the moment. He hadn’t forgotten Isaac’s words at the pack meeting: _We shouldn’t keep him just because he needs us_.

Cora must have sensed Jackson tense up, because she pressed her palm to the back of his neck in a way that was strangely soothing on a primal level. Jackson’s human antipathy toward Isaac was undermined by this positive reinforcement of the pack bond.

“Play nice, pups,” said Cora in a tone that was firm without being too serious. “Jackson’s going to be spending more time here. If anyone tries to get territorial I’ll make sure Derek hears about it.”

The rest of the time before Jackson had to go home for dinner was spent watching Boyd and Isaac play a turn-based game on Boyd’s laptop while Jackson sat nearby with Cora. Jackson felt like an animal being introduced into a new household that already had pets... which, when he thought about it, was pretty much what was happening.

Cora kept in physical contact with Jackson in one way or another to ground him pretty much the whole time. Jackson focused on associating Isaac’s and Boyd’s scents and voices with the feeling of pack that Cora gave him. The effort was relatively successful; within several hours Jackson went from being tense and annoyed with his packmates to relatively calm and ambivalent about their presence. That was probably all anyone could ask for out of their first day like this. Regardless, it felt like a huge step to Jackson, and it worked wonders on the undercurrent of loneliness his wolf made him feel most of the time.

At dinner, his mother remarked that he was looking less stressed than he had in the past few weeks. Jackson half-lied, saying the beginning of the school year was always busy but that he was hitting his stride now. Then he went to his room and did his homework, because threat of imminent death or not, he’d be damned if he’d let his grades slip.

“My parents would kill me if they found you here, you know,” said Jackson in the direction of the window.

“What, like they’d think we were fucking?” Cora took off her shoes and crawled into bed with Jackson (without permission, as usual).

Jackson raised an _are-you-serious_ eyebrow at her. “Well, yeah.”

He had to quickly cover Cora’s mouth when she burst into a fit of giggles so his parents wouldn’t hear her. Sure, their house was well-built, but his room wasn’t soundproof.

“Why’s that so funny?” said Jackson irritably.

Cora pushed his hand away from her mouth and said, smiling, “You don’t smell good to me.”

Jackson blinked at her. “What?”

“Sorry, that’s a wolf way of saying I’m not attracted to you.” Cora shrugged. “You smell good in the pack sense. Why, do I smell good to you?”

“Not like that.” Definitely not. There were a handful of girls that smelled good to Jackson in that sense, and only one person who smelled so good to him that his scent had the power to affect Jackson’s emotions.

“Just Stupid Name Kid, huh?” said Cora, like she’d read Jackson’s mind. “Wow, you’ve got it bad.”

“Stop,” said Jackson, more forcefully than he meant to.

He didn’t want to talk about Stiles. He still felt sick to his stomach when he thought about the things Stiles had said to him on the phone. Stiles had been right; Jackson _was_ embarrassed about it. Now he felt stupid for being embarrassed, and pathetic for letting Stiles’ words hit him so hard. He was also frustrated by the undercurrent of beta instinct that made it all worse. Jackson had been told off by someone who was still in some senses an alpha to him. It was like being reprimanded for disobeying.

“Are you going to tell me what’s been going on with you all day?” said Cora, like she was reading his mind. She seemed genuinely concerned rather than just being nosy, but Jackson desperately hoped she’d let it go. He didn’t think he could bear telling her about it.

“Please don’t make me,” said Jackson quietly, his voice pitiful to his own ears. Because he couldn’t lie to her if she really pushed him to tell her.

“Okay,” said Cora. “You should sleep, anyway. You look like hell.”

So they slept, which (as usual) was much easier for Jackson when Cora was there, despite the fact that Jackson was still upset about Stiles. In fact, he probably would have slept through until morning if he hadn’t been woken up after a few hours by Cora.

She wasn’t lying close to him this time, but he could hear her whimpering and whining softly in her sleep. Her eyebrows were slightly knit with worry. A nightmare. She was murmuring what sounded like nonsense words until Jackson managed to catch a few: ‘Stop,’ ‘No,’ ‘Erica,’ ‘gone,’ ‘Boyd.’

It was unsettling to see Cora like this. She was always so in control, not afraid of anything. Now she looked just as scared and small as Jackson felt most of the time.

After a moment of hesitation, Jackson shifted closer to Cora so that they were facing each other on their sides. He reached out a hand and smoothed her hair away from her face, then ran his palm over her upper arm until she began to relax again.

“You’re okay,” he whispered to her. “Shhh, you’re okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, sorry for all the extended angst and dialogue and all that but I PROMISE that this is the last chapter before Jackson and Stiles are back in the same room together and interacting and all that other stuff that gives this fic an 'Explicit' rating, okay? ;) 
> 
> Timeline-wise, this chapter falls Monday-Wednesday after Season 3A, Episode 3 (according to [this awesome timeline](http://teenwolfwiki.com/Timeline)). The next chapter should roughly follow Episode 4 because seriously I need to get moving with the plot!
> 
> Thanks to all of you for reading and commenting and giving kudos and patiently waiting for each chapter. As always, special thanks to my beta [Ismene_Jane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ismene_Jane), who continues to school me on Derek, and to [AradiaFirehawk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AradiaFirehawk).


	13. Obscenity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER THIRTEEN: OBSCENITY

DEREK

Derek finally found time to go back to the high school to check on the teacher he’d rescued from Cora and Boyd. He really shouldn’t have put it off as long as he did, but he’d been focused on his betas and a lot of Jackson-related teen angst, which was exhausting enough without having to worry that their cover might be blown on top of everything else. It was unlikely that the teacher would tell anyone what she’d seen anyway, and even less likely that someone would believe her, but it was still a good idea to go.

That was the reason he _should_ go. He also _wanted_ to go. Now that things with his betas were more settled, Derek had found himself thinking about the woman. How frightened she’d been. How she’d decided to trust him, taken his hand, let him help her. It hadn’t been her fault that she’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. He genuinely wanted to make sure she was okay.

She responded to his concern by screaming and threatening him with a blackboard pointer. It was somehow charming.

Maybe he should stop suddenly appearing in rooms people thought were empty...

The way she talked, her facial expressions, the looks she gave him made Derek smile. It felt good to smile. It felt good to be trusted. It felt good to just be a person talking to another person, with no pack dynamics or life-threatening situations involved.

Her name was Jennifer, and she was beautiful. Maybe nearly getting himself killed saving her life had been worth it after all. Maybe. Almost.

Derek was in such a good mood after his meeting that when he saw Jackson surreptitiously watching Stiles in the hallway while getting something from his locker, he walked up to him. Jackson jumped when Derek put his hand on his beta’s shoulder.

“The hell are you doing here?” asked Jackson, clearly irritated that someone had managed to sneak up on him, even if it was another werewolf.

“Is that any way to talk to your alpha?” Derek raised an eyebrow at Jackson. He kept a straight face an even tone though he was smiling inwardly, because sometimes messing with Jackson was irresistible.

“...Sorry,” mumbled Jackson, posture slumping into a more submissive stance instinctually.

Derek looked over at Stiles, then back at Jackson, and rolled his eyes. “Stop staring at him like a lovesick puppy and go talk to him.”

Jackson bristled. “I’m not--”

“Jackson,” Derek cut him off with an exasperated sigh. “I’m saying you can see him again. Don’t argue or I’ll change my mind.”

“I… Okay,” said Jackson. He looked nervous, wary. “Just… don’t say anything to anyone.”

Derek assessed Jackson’s tone and posture and understood. Derek no longer forbidding Jackson from seeing Stiles didn’t change the fact that Jackson didn’t want anyone else to know about them. Whatever was going on there really _was_ complicated. Ugh. The problem with having teenage betas was that you had to deal with teen drama.

“Okay,” Derek agreed, because pushing the issue would only upset Jackson. He casually slid his palm from Jackson’s shoulder to the back of his neck and pressed against it gently. A memory flashed through Derek’s mind: the first time he’d met Jackson, next to lockers like these, when Derek had wolfsbane poisoning and accidentally sunk his claws into the back of Jackson’s neck. A hell of a lot had changed in six months.

“Go to class,” said Derek as he let go of his beta.

He didn’t need to tell Jackson twice. Derek shook his head ruefully and suppressed a smile as he watched his beta practically sprint away from him.

 _Teenagers_.

* * *

STILES

Scott was telling Stiles about yet another mysterious disappearance of a teenager and Stiles was trying not to panic. It felt to Stiles like he spent a lot of his energy lately on trying not to panic.

“A thought occurs,” said Stiles as he pulled on a hoodie over his running gear.

“What?” asked Scott.

“I’m wondering where the line is drawn on this virgin sacrifice issue. I mean, virginity is pretty much an artificial construct created by the patriarchy for the purpose of controlling women, right? So like, if you define home base or whatever as involving penetration with a, well, you know, then A, that’s total bullshit that reinforces the power of the patriarchy, and B, it doesn’t work in this case because lesbian sex wouldn’t count and that would make no sense considering Caitlin’s girlfriend, right?” Stiles took a breath between thoughts and slammed his locker door shut. “Or would she still be considered a virgin if she hadn’t been with a dude? And what about anal? Does that count? So many super important questions haven’t been answered! Especially the most important question, in my humble opinion, which is _am I in danger of being virgin sacrificed_?”

“Dude. First off, you need to breathe,” said Scott as he closed his locker. “Second, I have absolutely no idea where the psychopathic ritualistic killer draws the line on virginity. Third, even if I did know, I’m not sure I’d want you to spell out your sex life for me so I could tell whether you still qualify.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles caught Jackson changing while talking to Danny. Stiles made a concerted effort when they were in the locker room to pretend that he hadn’t bitten and licked and kissed significant portions of Jackson’s back and chest, which was so awkward it bordered on painful, especially now that he hadn’t touched Jackson in far too long. It was particularly awkward today, however, thanks to the fact that Jackson could most definitely hear Scott and Stiles, and all three of them knew that Stiles’ real question was ‘ _Have Jackson and I done enough that I can say I’ve had sex?_ ’

Stiles could feel Jackson’s eyes on him every now and then, sneaking glances when Stiles wasn’t looking. Stiles wondered if Jackson was mentally cataloguing their history of sexual activity and assessing Stiles’ status vis-à-vis virginity, too.

Running. Yes. That’s what Stiles needed to do right now. Less thinking about Jackson’s naked torso and more running. Much, _much_ more running.

* * *

JACKSON

Cross Country practice quickly turned into a poorly concealed werewolf fight when Isaac shot off after the alpha twins who’d captured him. (And what the hell were they doing in high school, anyway?) Jackson couldn’t find an excuse to split off from Danny without sparking questions he couldn’t answer, which caused an unexpected pang of panic in his chest at not being able to help. His bond with Isaac wasn’t strong, but it was there, and his instinct to defend his packmate was growing. Jackson could hear growling and then the breaking and healing of bones--

A girl screamed.

It wasn’t the first dead body Jackson had been near by a long shot, but it still wasn’t pleasant. The smell of congealed blood and rotting flesh nearly made him gag despite the fact that he wasn’t even close to the body. His heightened senses weren’t always an asset. Jackson also had a lot of memories associated with corpses that he’d worked very hard to suppress as much as possible.

Jackson listened to Isaac, McCall, and Stiles puzzling over the patterns of the human sacrifices. Jackson wanted to contribute, but again, he wouldn’t be able to explain the nature of his connections with them to Danny, so he couldn’t go talk to them. There was a major flaw in Stiles’ virgin sacrifice theory now: Kyle (the most recent Threefold Death victim) hadn’t been a virgin. Jackson hadn’t known the guy that well, but he’d known enough about him to know that much. The girl currently screaming Kyle’s name hadn’t exactly been a prude.

Jackson suppressed the urge to roll his eyes, since that wasn’t exactly an appropriate reaction for most people to have in a situation like this. But couldn’t Beacon Hills go more than a couple of days without a brutal murder? All Jackson had wanted out of today was to find a way to enjoy the fact that he was no longer forbidden from seeing Stiles. Now Stiles would no doubt spend all day trying to puzzle out why Kyle had been killed. And Stiles probably wouldn’t make much progress, which would stress him out and make it impossible for him to think about or do anything else, including giving Jackson any attention. Unless...

Giving Jackson attention was _exactly_ what Stiles should do today. That’s why they needed each other: Stiles shut Jackson’s brain off and Jackson helped Stiles focus. It was the perfect solution.

The only major obstacle now was the fact that the last interaction between Jackson and Stiles had consisted of Stiles yelling at him on the phone for being an asshole.

Maybe Jackson should apologize.

Yeah, that wasn’t gonna happen.

Maybe Stiles wouldn’t mind if Jackson did his not-apologizing in the right way.

* * *

STILES

The doorbell rang. Stiles looked up from his computer where he’d spent the time since he’d gotten home from school in a flurry of research about druids and darachs and human sacrifices and the Threefold Death and at least twenty other gruesome topics that fell under the umbrella of the whole Seriously-No-One-In-Beacon-Hills-Is-Safe-Right-Now clusterfuck of horribleness. Three virgins were dead, one warrior was dead and two had now been taken, and Stiles still had no idea who might be next or when the Darach would strike again.

Seeing as how the doorbell hardly ever rang, Stiles’ first impulse was to panic for the dozenth time that day. The Stilinskis rarely got non-supernatural visitors, and supernatural visitors tended to visit after hours. But that didn’t mean that it was necessarily a murderous alpha werewolf or a darach, right? Maybe it was missionaries or something. Or Girl Scouts! Stiles couldn’t remember if it was Girl Scout cookie season. But Girl Scouts didn’t really do the door-to-door thing anymore anyway, right? It was easier and safer to catch people just outside the supermarket. So yeah, the chances of the visitor (or visitors) being unwelcome were high.

Stiles crept downstairs so he could look through the peephole without whoever was outside knowing he was home. (Unless the visitors were angry alpha werewolves, in which case they could hear his pulse, in which case he was screwed anyway.) When he saw who was on the other side of the door, he felt a half-nervous, half-relieved flutter in his stomach replace the panic. He took a deep breath and let it out before opening the door.

“...Hi,” said Stiles.

Almost a week of essentially no contact outside of school. No texts, no calls. And here Jackson was, just standing on Stiles’ doorstep. Expensive clothes, impeccable hair, disgustingly handsome face and all.

“Hey,” said Jackson, awkwardly.

“You’re at my door,” said Stiles. Because he couldn’t come up with something better to state than the obvious.

“Yeah,” said Jackson.

“Why?” It came out harsher than Stiles had intended.

Jackson’s carefully neutral expression slid toward the frown spectrum. “I can go if you want…”

“No, I just mean, usually you guys prefer my window,” Stiles clarified hastily.

“It’s still light out,” said Jackson, because apparently that explained everything.

Stiles regarded him warily. “How’d you know my dad wasn’t home?”

“He has a double shift today,” said Jackson, like it wasn’t at all creepy that Jackson kept track of his dad’s work schedule so he knew when Stiles was home alone. Nope. “Plus only one heartbeat in the house.”

“Wow,” said Stiles, wide-eyed. “You’d make an excellent stalker.”

“I’ll put that on my résumé,” said Jackson dryly.

“So is there another crisis going on or something?” said Stiles, trying to figure out why Jackson would randomly be at his house after the insanity that had constituted today so far. “Did someone _else_ get taken in the half hour since I got home? ’Cause I’m gonna need a power bar or something with some protein to eat if I need to go check out another crime scene.”

“Not that I know of,” said Jackson.

“I’m gonna level with you,” said Stiles, rubbing at his own face tiredly, “today has not been the most relaxing day ever.”

“I heard.” There was an awkward pause before Jackson said, “...So can I come in, or what?”

“What?” Stiles looked around at the open door frame he was standing in of and gave himself a mental forehead smack for his obliviousness. “Oh! Yeah, um, I guess, fuck, of course, obviously, duh.”

Stiles gestured for Jackson to come inside, then closed the door behind them. “So, I--”

Before Stiles had a chance to start making awkward small talk, to apologize or maybe ask for an apology or he didn’t even really know what, Jackson had exercised his superhuman strength and shoved Stiles back against the inside of the door. Just like old times. He clutched Stiles’ shirt in one fist and grabbed Stiles’ hair with his other hand and kissed him. Huhn. Apparently Derek had lifted the Don’t-Touch-Stiles-Or-Else order.

Stiles’ brain shifted from Frantically-Trying-To-Figure-Out-Ritualistic-Murder-Patterns Mode to Blissfully-Focused-This-Is-Super-Hot-Dominant Mode so fast he nearly suffered mental whiplash. Panicking could wait. Jackson was quite possibly the only thing that could distract Stiles from a puzzle that big, and Stiles was fine with that right now.

Major props to Jackson for this one. As much as Stiles loved being in charge, it was always a turn-on when Jackson wanted him badly enough to have the guts to make a move. Stiles made a happy sound in his throat and put his hands on Jackson’s waist to pull him closer so that their hips were pressed together. Jackson, unbelievably, was already hard, and Stiles was well on his way once he got his tongue into Jackson’s mouth and Jackson did that melty thing where his muscles relaxed when he surrendered to Stiles’ control.

Stiles bit Jackson’s bottom lip to help get him into that place where he was submissive but still a little wild and wolfy. When Jackson’s eyes lit up in glowing blue rings Stiles knew he’d succeeded. Their kisses were rough and somewhat lacking in finesse, plus the doorknob was hitting Stiles’ side every now and then, but it was fucking fantastic. Trite as the metaphor was, Stiles had been starving without this, and he hadn’t realized quite how hungry he’d been until he’d had a taste of it again.

“I hate that I can’t not say this,” said Stiles near Jackson’s ear, which he was grazing his teeth over, “because your ego is about sixteen times bigger than it should be already.” Stiles dug his fingers into Jackson’s hipbones and ground forward into him. “But you’re so fucking _hot_.”

Jackson made an unintelligible sound as Stiles’ mouth moved to his neck. Stiles was at war with himself; he couldn’t stop talking even though his lips and tongue and teeth didn’t want to leave Jackson’s skin.

“Seriously.” Stiles tugged the collar of Jackson’s shirt aside so he could lick along his clavicle. “How is it fair to make somebody who’s already super hot into a werewolf?” He pulled back to look up at Jackson’s face, where he could see glowing blue peeking out from beneath half-closed eyelids. “I mean, Scott clearly could’ve used the help, but you--”

“Shut up, Stilinski,” said Jackson in a super sexy gravelly voice.

“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t just hear you tell me what to do,” said Stiles, warning in his tone. He tugged at Jackson’s jacket sleeves until Jackson helped him take it off. It fell to the floor at their feet.

Jackson wasn’t cowed. “I forgot how much you _talk_.”

“You like it when I talk,” countered Stiles.

“Depends what you’re say--” Jackson gasped when Stiles sunk his blunt human teeth into Jackson’s neck, which was much easier to get at now that his jacket was gone. “--saying.”

“Right now I say we’re going to my room,” said Stiles. He shoved at Jackson’s chest with one palm, and Jackson stepped back and eagerly followed Stiles upstairs.

Stiles shut his bedroom door behind them and pinned Jackson up against it, because turnabout was fair play. It took about ten seconds after he started kissing Jackson again for Jackson to go back to being melty and boneless. Well, boneless except for where he was not-so-subtly grinding his hips against Stiles’. And man-oh-man, Stiles had missed the rush of making Jackson submit. Speaking of which...

“Just so Derek doesn’t get all pissy with me,” Stiles said against Jackson’s neck, “let’s both state for the record that I’m not your alpha.”

“You’re not my alpha,” Jackson agreed, breath hitching as Stiles licked along his throat. And maybe it was counterintuitive to tell a werewolf that Stiles wasn’t his alpha while he was baring his throat to Stiles, but it was also a hell of a lot of fun. Stiles reluctantly pulled back and looked Jackson in his glowy eyes to make sure he really understood.

“Grumpy, surly, emotionally stunted Derek Hale is your alpha,” said Stiles clearly. “You’re a Hale pack beta. I’m not pack. Cora and Isaac and Boyd are pack. Okay?”

“Derek’s my alpha,” said Jackson, becoming more distracted by the second because Stiles couldn’t stop his hands from roaming beneath Jackson’s shirt. “I’m… I… Hale pack.”

“Good enough,” said Stiles. He glared at Jackson’s shirt, which was not cooperating with the unbuttoning process. “Okay, I’m instituting a rule: no more shirts with buttons when you come over here.”

“Not my alpha,” said Jackson with a smug smirk.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, I’m the guy who’s gonna ruin the next shirt I can’t take off in less than ten seconds.”

Jackson tried to help Stiles with the buttons, which probably made the whole process take longer, but they got the shirt off in one piece in the end. Stiles took a moment to appreciate Jackson’s bare chest, which he hadn’t seen outside a locker room setting in weeks.

Stiles heaved an exaggerated sigh. “You sure do know how to make a guy feel inadequate.”

It was Jackson’s turn to roll his eyes. He abandoned his passivity and nudged Stiles away, maneuvering both of them toward the bed until the backs of Stiles’ legs hit the side of the bed and he fell backward onto it. Jackson bent over him, arms braced on either side of Stiles’ waist. Then he ducked his head and took the hem of Stiles’ shirt between his teeth, rucking it up to Stiles’ armpits so he could get at his chest.

Stiles was able to watch Jackson for all of maybe fifteen seconds before the sensation of Jackson kissing and licking and _biting_ his chest made it too hard to hold his head up. Stiles had forgotten how fixated Jackson was with leaving marks on him. He shivered reflexively. Okay, maybe Jackson knew how to make a guy feel inadequate, but he also knew how to tell a guy he didn’t think he _was_ inadequate.

“H-hey,” said Stiles, unconsciously leaning his body up toward Jackson’s mouth. “Not sure you should leave evidence I can’t explain in the locker room. Not that I’m complaining.”

“Say it was someone else,” Jackson murmured dismissively before he began worrying a hickey into the very sensitive skin over Stiles’ ribs.

Stiles wasn’t sure he wanted to do that, but he also didn’t want to stop Jackson, so he let it go. Now Jackson’s mouth was moving down to Stiles’ stomach, then lower, and his fingers were undoing the fly and zipper in Stiles’ jeans. Jackson kicked Stiles’ knees apart so he could settle between them. Stiles looked down again just in time to see Jackson take Stiles’ cock into his mouth. He let his head fall back onto the bed with a groan.

Jackson sucked Stiles’ cock like there was nothing in the world he wanted to do more than that. When Stiles got his fingers in Jackson’s unnecessarily gelled hair--Stiles made a mental note to add ‘no hair product’ to the ‘no more buttons’ prohibition--and tugged, Jackson took him in deeper. And holy shit, waiting had sucked but it was totally worth it to have Jackson on his knees giving Stiles head without even needing to be told.

It was really, _really_ good. And not just because it had been a while. Jackson was completely focused on Stiles, taking him in so far Stiles thought he must be in danger of gagging. And then it stopped. Stiles looked back down at Jackson in confusion.

His eyes were glowing steadily, pupils wide and dark. A needy ache settled in Stiles’ stomach as Jackson stared at him, expression full of that _want_ that Stiles could completely empathize with. Stiles was pretty sure he knew what in particular Jackson’s _want_ was focused on, and he was tempted to make him ask for it. Stiles had said Jackson would _beg_ him for it, after all...

* * *

JACKSON

Jackson needed to focus on Stiles because if he didn’t focus on Stiles he was going to freak the fuck out about what every instinct and impulse--werewolf and human--was telling him he wanted right now. What he wanted right now was new and terrifying and required more submission and trust than he’d ever given to anybody. It was all well and good to say that it was just sex, but it was still uncharted territory for Jackson.

“C’mere,” said Stiles with an insistent tug to Jackson’s hair. Jackson obediently climbed up onto the bed with Stiles, who had taken his shirt off and shifted up so he could lie down properly with his head on the pillows. Jackson hesitated, but Stiles took his wrist and hauled Jackson toward him. Caught off guard, Jackson landed on his back next to Stiles, who had clearly planned it that way. Then Stiles was straddling him, and Jackson could feel Stiles’ cock against his stomach when Stiles leaned down to kiss him. He suddenly felt a deep loathing for jeans.

Stiles broke the kiss, nosed behind Jackson’s ear and whispered, in a surprisingly gentle tone, “It’s okay. I won’t make you beg.”

 _You want me to_ fuck _you. You want it so bad it scares you. And someday you’re gonna beg me for it._

Jackson _did_ want it, and it _did_ scare him, and he was pretty sure that, yes, if Stiles made him, he _would_ beg. He felt a rush of gratitude toward Stiles for saving him that blow to his pride.

“One thing first, though.” Stiles lifted his head and made Jackson meet his eyes. He held Jackson’s gaze and said very clearly and seriously, “You’re gonna be totally honest right now, okay?”

Jackson nodded without breaking eye contact. Stiles paused and chewed at his own lower lip for a second like he sometimes did when he was nervous or thinking. Jackson held his breath unconsciously in anticipation.

“Do you want me to _fuck_ you?” said Stiles, his heart skipping as he said it despite his calm exterior.

The question sent a thrill through Jackson so visceral he made a little obscene sound in his throat. Jackson closed his eyes, embarrassed. He didn’t want to answer. It wouldn’t be as bad as begging, but it was still hard to say the words--even the one word: a resounding _Yes_ \--out loud.

“Look at me,” said Stiles firmly. Jackson’s eyes snapped open again. “I just wanna make sure you’re not in Do-Whatever-Stiles-Wants Mode. I don’t…” His voice was softer now: “I don’t want to unless you do.”

Stiles was biting his own bottom lip again, pulse betraying his nervousness.

_Don’t ever let me do anything to you that you don’t really want._

Jackson understood: Stiles wasn’t going to do this without clear consent. This was what Jackson got for being so insanely submissive with Stiles.

It took him two tries to get the words out, but Jackson was finally able to look at Stiles and say, “I want to.”

It was maybe a split second after Jackson said the word ‘to’ that Stiles’ lips were back on his. His kisses were filled with urgency and excitement, and he quickly took back control in the way he knew would systematically break down Jackson’s pride and self-consciousness and coax out the version of himself that only Stiles knew was there. Stiles kissed him until Jackson was pressing his hips up into his, until Jackson was making pitiful sounds between kisses, until Jackson believed that he might really beg for it if Stiles didn’t touch him soon. He liked kissing Stiles. He _really_ liked it. But it wasn’t enough.

After what felt like an eternity, Stiles slid off Jackson and took his own jeans and boxers off. This made him completely naked, whereas Jackson was only missing his jacket and shirt. Jackson tried to sit up and help with his own clothes, but he only succeeded in kicking off his shoes (with some difficulty) before Stiles shoved him back down and finished undressing Jackson by himself. Jackson got the hint and stayed still while Stiles moved to straddle him again.

This time it was skin-on-skin, smooth and hot. Jackson gave up all pretense of restraint and angled his hips so he could rub his cock against Stiles’. Stiles inhaled sharply and kissed him again, grinding his hips down into Jackson’s. Slowly but intently. Like they had all time in the world. And in the back of Jackson’s hazy mind he was convinced that Stiles was testing Jackson’s patience on purpose. A power play. His hands slipped into Jackson’s hair, tugging at it as they kissed, and Jackson was sure now that he’d crack, that he’d give in and beg for it, even though Stiles had said he wouldn’t make him do that.

Then Stiles pulled back a bit so that he could look at Jackson’s face, searching Jackson’s eyes through long, dark eyelashes. Stiles’ pulse was racing as he wet his lips, calm and focused on the outside with nervous excitement practically crackling like electricity beneath his skin.

There was something in Stiles’ gaze that Jackson had to shut his eyes against because he couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t handle the unexpected intensity of Stiles’ undivided attention. He couldn’t deal with the fact that Stiles with his dark eyes and kissed-pink lips and tousled hair in the late afternoon light was _beautiful_ , couldn’t suppress the unwelcome thought that Lydia used to look at him that way sometimes. And it was just sex it was just sex it was just sex but it _wasn’t_ , because it was Stiles’ first time and it was Jackson’s first time like _this_ , and Jackson ached so badly to be wanted and special and good but he didn’t, couldn’t, shouldn’t want to be _loved_.

It was a welcome relief when Stiles broke the spell by looking away.

“Fuck, I don’t have…” Stiles was looking toward his nightstand.

It took Jackson a few seconds to clear his head enough to register what Stiles was talking about. “You don’t need one.”

“Huh?” Stiles regarded him incredulously. “I mean, I know you can’t get pregnant, and I’m not saying you’re a manwhore or anything, but it’s still a good idea…”

“I’m a werewolf,” said Jackson, hoping he wouldn’t have to explain it further.

“ _Oh_ ,” said Stiles after a moment of thought. Werewolves didn’t get sick; Jackson didn’t have any disease he could give to Stiles, and if Stiles somehow gave Jackson something it wouldn’t affect him. The only point of using a condom would be for easy clean-up.

Stiles shifted off of Jackson again to grab something from the drawer in his nightstand. Jackson’s nose told him it was lube before Stiles opened the cap. “Okay. How do you wa--”

Jackson had rolled so he was on his hands and knees before giving it any conscious thought.

_Some betas just want to roll over for an alpha. There’s no shame in it._

This was how Jackson wanted it. Total submission, human and wolf. _Not my alpha_ , Jackson reminded himself. But what he really felt was _Not my_ only _alpha. Not my_ pack _alpha._ Maybe Stiles wasn’t a werewolf, maybe he wasn’t Jackson’s alpha, but when they were like this, Jackson was Stiles’ beta. Jackson was whatever Stiles wanted him to be.

Stiles’ fingers were cold from the lube at first, and Jackson was startled when one slid along the cleft of his ass. He was tense, scared, conflicted. He wanted it, he did. But it was one thing to crave the idea of something and another to actually experience it.

“You’re gonna have to relax for this to work,” said Stiles from behind him. Not impatient or judgmental. Just matter-of-fact.

Relax. Sure, no problem. Jackson took a deep breath and exhaled through his nose. Then he did it again. He focused on his breathing and willed his muscles to untense as Stiles began pressing a finger into him. Not cold anymore, just… strange.

“I’m not gonna make any sudden movements,” said Stiles reassuringly.

Stiles took his time, waiting for Jackson to get used to the first finger before adding a second. Working in and out of him until the muscles began to relax, then stretch. Every now and then Stiles would kiss or slide his teeth or tongue along the skin of Jackson’s lower back or spend a minute or two stroking Jackson’s cock with his free hand. Distracting him from the strangeness of it. Keeping him calm. Making him want more.

“Okay,” said Stiles as he withdrew his fingers. And Jackson knew what was going to happen next because Stiles’ pulse was speeding up. “Ready?”

No. No, Jackson was not ready. But he was never going to be ready. That’s why he needed Stiles to make him ready. Jackson managed a nod and a sound of assent. He heard and felt Stiles moving into position, getting more lube, psyching himself up. Stiles pressed one of his palms to Jackson’s lower back while he prepared to guide himself in. It was comforting. Grounding.

It was one of the most intense physical sensations Jackson had ever experienced. Stiles was slow and careful at first, but Jackson still had to make a conscious effort to keep his muscles as relaxed as possible. By the time Stiles was completely in (as far as Jackson could tell), Jackson was shaking.

Stiles must have sensed his distress.

“Hey, heyheyhey, it’s okay,” said Stiles as he ran his hands along Jackson’s sides, trying to calm him down. “You’re okay. I got you.”

Jackson focused on the sound of Stiles’ voice and the feeling of warm hands on his skin as he breathed as evenly as he could. He searched for Stiles’ scent in the air, too, and once three of his senses were overcome by Stiles he started to calm down. Slowly, the shaking began to subside.

“Better?” asked Stiles. Jackson nodded again because he didn’t trust his voice not to shake or make him sound desperate or something. “Okay,” said Stiles. “I’m gonna move now.”

Jackson gasped as Stiles pulled out and tentatively pushed back in. Stiles paused and said, half-laughing: “Holy _fuck_ there is no way I’m gonna last long. Sorry in advance.”

It took a few thrusts to stop hurting, a few more to stop being uncomfortable, and then it felt okay, then good, then fantastic, and then it was the best thing Jackson had ever felt, no exaggeration necessary. It would’ve been difficult to describe exactly why it felt so good. Objectively an orgasm felt better physically. But on a psychological and instinctual level, nothing had ever felt better. Jackson’s beta wolf had wanted this more badly than he’d realized, and, though he could barely admit it even to himself, the submissive part of his human self wanted it almost as much.

 _You want me to_ fuck _you. And when I give it to you you’re going to_ love _it._

And he did. He completely and thoroughly and undeniably loved the feeling of Stiles fucking him. Why was Stiles always right? Why did Stiles get to understand what Jackson needed better than Jackson himself did?

“ _Fuck_ , you feel good,” gasped Stiles as he increased his pace. “Like, _really_ good. The goodest.”

Jackson might have smiled if his mouth wasn’t hanging open. He was resting his weight on his forearms now instead of his hands, face pressed into Stiles’ pillow where every gasping breath drew in Stiles’ intoxicating scent, which was still the best thing he’d ever smelled. He had the impression that maybe he was saying Stiles’ name, or asking for more, or maybe just saying nonsense words, but his brain was so blissfully blank that he couldn’t tell for sure and didn’t care at all.

Stiles’ voice was clearer to Jackson than his own. He wasn’t making a lot of sense either, but he kept telling Jackson that he was good, and that was all Jackson needed to hear. Jackson was so hyperaware of the feeling of Stiles inside him that it took Stiles touching his cock to remind Jackson that he’d probably want to come at some point. It turned out that he was so hard from being fucked that a few strokes of Stiles’ hand were enough to send him over the edge. And Jackson was sure then that, yes, this time he had definitely said Stiles’ name. He may or may not have screamed it.

Not long after that it was Stiles’ turn to scream Jackson’s name, along with an impressive stream of swear words (even for Stiles), and Jackson was overcome by an unexpected sense of… satisfaction? Pride? A sense of fulfillment, maybe, from making Stiles come. A deep, instinctual contentment related to having given Stiles what he was supposed to. And though he’d die before he’d ever admit it to another living soul, there was something strangely appealing about knowing that Stiles’ cum was inside him. Knowing Stiles had marked him in some way, however temporary.

They collapsed together in a mess of sweaty limbs and dirty sheets. For the first time since he’d rolled over, Jackson saw Stiles’ face again. Still beautiful. Again it was almost too much for Jackson to bear, but he kept his eyes open this time because he wanted to see it. He’d made his alpha-- _Not my alpha_ \--He’d made _Stiles_ feel good. He wanted to see what he’d done to Stiles.

“Regrets?” Stiles asked with a dazed, almost giddy smile.

No, Jackson thought to himself. How could he regret doing something Stiles wanted him to do? Making Stiles feel good was all that mattered. It just happened to have the added bonus of making Jackson feel really fucking good, too.

Jackson shook his head and basked in the pleased look Stiles was giving him. Stiles’ hand was running soothingly over his hair, his shoulders, his back. Fidgety fingers roaming more lazily than usual.

“How come you’re so good with me and such an asshole out there?” Stiles mused, sounding almost in awe.

Jackson stiffened at what felt like harsh words.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” amended Stiles. “I like it. You’re only good like this for me, huh? Always so good for me.” He pressed his forehead to Jackson’s shoulder and sighed contentedly. “So fucking good.”

No matter how many times Stiles said it, it was still the best thing Jackson had ever heard. _Good. Always so good. So fucking good._

He lay there sleepily in Stiles’ bed, sticky and drunk on sex and praise, letting Stiles pet him and listening to him talk about pretty much anything that entered his head (his focus was slipping now that they were finished). Experiencing little surges of pride and contentment when he heard the word ‘good.’ Waiting to inevitably revert back to the asshole that he was ‘out there.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys are back together! In a very serious way! Was it worth the wait? ;D Of course, if you know me by now you know that it ain't gonna be all snuggles and sunshine from here on out, but at least the Derek-imposed separation is over, right? Because there's canon- and non-canon angst on its way and they need to get their shit together.
> 
> Timeline for this chapter: First half of 3A, Episode 4, which is ONE DAY. Seriously, soooo much happens in this episode! The next chapter will cover the second half of that day before we can move on. Sheesh!
> 
> Thanks to all of you for reading and commenting and giving kudos and patiently waiting for each chapter. As always, special thanks to my beta [Ismene_Jane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ismene_Jane), who continues to school me on Derek, and to [AradiaFirehawk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AradiaFirehawk).


	14. Security

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER FOURTEEN: SECURITY

STILES

It was maybe ten minutes later that Jackson extricated himself from Stiles’ arms and headed to the bathroom for a shower. It was always strange for Stiles to experience Jackson slipping back into his ‘normal’ self after submitting. This time Stiles had been in close enough proximity to Jackson’s body that he could literally feel his muscles tensing back up as he slowly became less comfortable with Stiles holding him. The transformation was surreal (if you wanted to go the massive understatement route).

Stiles got up and joined Jackson in the shower, where Stiles tolerated Jackson whining about Stiles’ cheap shampoo and Jackson tolerated Stiles lazily mouthing at his neck and shoulders and grinning like an idiot because Jackson was hot and sex was awesome (also a massive understatement).

“Ugh, I’m gonna smell like you all night,” complained Jackson as he rinsed his hair out.

“Good,” said Stiles near Jackson’s ear. Maybe Stiles’ human nose wouldn’t be able to smell much of a difference, but all the werewolves would. There was a possessive streak in Stiles’ dominant side that liked the idea of people knowing that Stiles had _claimed_ Jackson. Maybe Jackson was Derek’s beta when it came to everything else, but he was _all_ Stiles’ when it came to this.

They got dressed again in Stiles’ bedroom in near-silence, though Stiles made up for it by shamelessly ogling Jackson’s body (while Jackson rolled his eyes at him) with a mental high five and a _Yeahhh, I hit that_ to himself. His uncontrollable grinning had downgraded to self-satisfied smirking.

“Remember, no buttons next time,” said Stiles as Jackson finished buttoning up his shirt.

“Whatever,” said Jackson dismissively, though Stiles knew he’d obey.

“And no hair gel,” added Stiles.

Jackson arched an eyebrow at him in a way that was eerily reminiscent of Derek. Like alpha, like beta. “Seriously?”

“Yep,” said Stiles. “Harder to grab your hair with that stuff in.”

Stiles’ smirk widened at the faint blush in Jackson’s cheeks at those words.

“Fine,” said Jackson, “if you leave your hair alone, too.”

“I’ll think about it,” said Stiles. Because Jackson didn’t get to tell him what to do, but he did like the thought of Jackson wanting to grab his hair.

Jackson suddenly froze, looked toward the window, and cocked his head to the side like a dog who’d just heard a sound humans couldn’t hear. Then he hurried from the room and down the stairs. He had the front door open before Stiles had reached the top stair.

“Cora?” Jackson said from the front steps.

When Stiles caught up with him he could indeed see Derek’s sister there, running up the driveway toward Jackson. Cora threw her arms around Jackson’s neck and clung to him tightly.

“Fuck,” she breathed, “Fuck, I thought… Why didn’t you answer your phone!”

“I, uh…” Jackson shifted awkwardly and gave Stiles a sideways glance.

Stiles looked down at the entryway floor, where Jackson’s discarded jacket was lying, presumably with his phone set on vibrate in its pocket. Jackson would’ve been too distracted to hear it during sex, and then the shower had probably drowned it out.

“Are you kidding me?” Cora sniffed at Jackson and wrinkled her nose in distaste. “You picked a hell of a time to fuck.”

“Hey, we showered!” Stiles said in objection to Cora’s grossed-out face.

“Did you _run_ here?” asked Jackson, sounding concerned. Stiles blinked in surprise. That was a tone he didn’t hear from Jackson very often. “What happened?”

“We need to go,” said Cora. “I’ll explain on the way.”

Without question, Jackson retrieved his jacket and put it on. He took Cora’s hand as he led the way to his car.

“Are you serious?” said Stiles to Cora from the doorway. “You come here all panicked like you thought Jackson was dead and now you’re just gonna leave without telling me what’s going on?”

“It’s pack stuff,” said Cora, regarding him impatiently. “No offense, but it’s not your business.”

“Uh, _yes_ offense!” said Stiles. “How is it not my business? I’m willing to bet that whatever’s going on will affect all the werewolves, which means it’ll affect Scott, which means it’ll affect me. So yes, my business. Very much my business.”

“Stiles,” said Jackson. A warning for him to back down.

“Fine,” said Stiles, but only because he didn’t want to cause problems between Jackson and his pack again. “Go have a little wolf club meeting. Just try to give me a heads-up if I need to fear for my life more than my usual baseline of fearing for my life on a pretty much constant basis, okay?”

Cora rolled her eyes, but Jackson gave Stiles a slight nod before he took Cora to his car. Stiles watched in impotent irritation as they drove away. Then he went back into his empty house, up to his empty room, and stripped his (disappointingly) empty bed. The dirty sheets went in the washer. Stiles made the bed with clean ones. He hung up the wet towels in the bathroom. He found the bottle of lube and put it safely away. Then he opened his window for a while to air out the sex smell while he did one last sweep of his room to look for any residual signs that Jackson had been there.

Stiles felt a strange pang in his chest as he remembered Jackson and Cora together. The way she’d hugged him, his obvious concern for her, how he’d held her hand without hesitation. Jackson was like a different person with her. There was a side of Jackson that Stiles was pretty sure he only showed Stiles, but it was buried so deep, and Stiles had to struggle to reach it every time they were together. Jackson wore his affection for Cora close to the surface. He wasn’t guarded with her.

Maybe it was because of what he and Jackson had just done. Maybe the post-sex hormones, the physical and psychological intensity of it all, had made Stiles temporarily clingy or possessive. But for a moment he wanted _that_ Jackson. The one who Cora had. Or at least a version of Jackson who wasn’t outright hostile toward Stiles most of the time.

Once everything was cleaned up, the kind of mild depression that sometimes hit Stiles after he’d had a particularly hyperactive day settled in. He’d had sex. It had been awesome: fun and exciting and really, really good-feeling. It had also been… fulfilling. That was the closest word Stiles could come up with to describe it. His urge to dominate had been sated. He’d thoroughly conquered Jackson, and just like Stiles had said he would, Jackson had _loved_ it.

The problem was that there was no one Stiles could talk to about it. He told Scott almost everything, but the idea of telling him about this, at least in any kind of detail, seemed awkward, daunting. It wouldn’t be the same as telling Scott about sleeping with some girl. Stiles didn’t really have any other close friends and he definitely couldn’t tell his dad (not because of the whole sex-with-a-guy thing or even the sex-with-Jackson-Whittemore thing, just the sex-in-general thing).

The only person who understood what Stiles and Jackson did together was, well, Jackson. And Jackson wouldn’t want to talk about it even if he were there. Stiles had just passed what most people considered to be a very significant milestone, and in its aftermath he was completely alone.

* * *

JACKSON

“Where are we going?” Jackson asked Cora, though he was pretty sure he knew.

“The loft,” said Cora, looking straight ahead through the windshield rather than at Jackson.

“What’s happening?”

“I think it’s better if you hear it from Derek,” said Cora. Her voice was level but her pulse was elevated. She was anxious.

Jackson frowned. “That’s not very reassuring.”

Cora was quiet for the rest of the drive, and Jackson was beginning to feel his own anxiety rising. He hoped Derek would explain things and help calm them down.

That’s not what happened.

“Why did you bring him here?” Derek said fiercely to Cora as soon as they stepped through the door. He was standing behind the table by the window, glaring at her.

Cora was taken aback, but recovered quickly. “I thought you’d want to make sure he’s okay, considering--”

“I don’t need him to be here to know he’s okay,” Derek snapped. “You could’ve just told me.”

Jackson got the impression that Derek had cut her off to keep her from revealing something to Jackson. Derek keeping things from Jackson wasn’t a good sign.

“He’s your beta,” said Cora haughtily. “You should want to see for yourself.”

“He looks fine,” said Derek. “Now he should go.”

Jackson’s irritation at being kept in the dark again made him bold. “How long are you going to talk about me like I’m not here?”

“You shouldn’t be here in the first place,” said Derek, voice carefully controlled now that he was talking to Jackson.

“You told me to come over more!” Jackson moved toward the table.

“Not anymore,” said Derek.

“What changed?” asked Jackson, directly in front of the table now. He was only a couple of feet from Derek. He could smell his alpha’s worry and anger. He wanted to fix it. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“You don’t need to know,” said Derek, catching Jackson’s gaze and holding it. A small show of power, a warning. Jackson didn’t heed it.

“But maybe I can hel--”

“ _Jackson_ ,” said Derek firmly. The red flash of his eyes shut Jackson up instantly.

Cora was conspicuously silent behind Jackson. She wasn’t going to come to his defense against Derek this time. Jackson didn’t blame her, though he would’ve liked her support.

“Go home, Jackson,” said Derek. “Be with your family. Hang out with your friends. Hell, go fuck Stiles again.”

Jackson’s cheeks grew hot with embarrassment. He wanted to deny it, for all the good it would do him since Derek would know he was lying. “I--”

“I can smell him on you,” said Derek. “It’s fine. I said you could. Now I’m telling you to leave.”

Jackson didn’t know how to respond. It was like Derek had slapped him in the face, and he didn’t understand what he’d done to deserve it.

“Don’t come here unless I call you,” said Derek, keeping eye contact with Jackson even though Jackson wanted desperately to look away. “Me, personally. Not Isaac, not Boyd, not Cora. Not a text, even if it’s from my phone. Unless you hear my voice tell you otherwise, my orders are that you stay away from here. Understand?”

Jackson nodded, not trusting his voice not to break if he spoke.

“ _Do you understand_?”

“Yes, Derek,” Jackson choked out.

It had been too much to hope for, after all. Derek’s approval. Derek wanting Jackson to be a real part of the pack. Jackson had barely had a chance to really feel what it was like and now it was gone again. The familiar pain of rejection that he used to feel around Derek was creeping back in. It was worse than if he’d never been accepted at all.

“Good,” said Derek. “Now go.”

Jackson barely gave Cora a backward glance before he left. He managed to drive his car home without incident. He was able to get to his room without letting on to his parents that something was wrong, said he’d already eaten dinner with friends. But his hand was shaking as he set his car keys on his desk. And before he’d really considered what he was doing, he had climbed out through his bedroom window, just as it started to rain.

One name: the only remotely coherent thought Jackson could process. He needed to get to Stiles.

* * *

DEREK

They were stronger than Derek could’ve ever imagined. But what the hell had he expected? It was an _entire_ _pack_ of _alphas_ , all of whom had the power of the betas they’d killed. Even one of the alphas would’ve been a formidable threat for Derek’s pack to stand up to, but _five_... Suddenly Derek’s attempt to build a pack out of a few vulnerable teenagers seemed laughably pathetic.

Derek could still feel Deucalion’s hand on his face, clawed fingers gripping his hair to make Derek look at him. Even more memorable was the feeling of the metal pole through Derek’s chest and the overpowering smell of his own blood pooling on the floor beneath him.

_You’re right, Kali. He looks like his mother._

Talia. Talia could’ve led the Hale pack against a threat like this. Back before the fire, when their numbers were large and they were united. Now Derek had a sister who was disappointed in him, a dead beta, a beta he’d chased off, and two more he was going to distance himself from as soon as possible.

And if Deucalion had his way, they’d all end up like Erica.

Derek wasn’t going to let that happen. No one else was going to die because of him, especially not his betas. If that meant making them all hate him, then so be it.

Making Jackson leave had been more painful than Derek had thought it would be. Jackson had just started trusting him. They had finally been developing a bond, and even if it had to be done, it hurt to ruin that. Derek had been able to smell the fear and rejection that Jackson used to radiate around Derek resurfacing as he’d told him to go. All the work Derek had done to try to undo the pain he’d caused Jackson, obliterated in less than a minute.

Adding insult to injury had been Stiles’ scent hanging like a cloud around Jackson. The smell of the ‘alpha’ who’d won Jackson’s allegiance through attention and kindness while Derek had been distant and cruel. Derek’s inner alpha growled at the thought even as Derek accepted the bitter defeat. Maybe it was for the best. Jackson would probably go running back to Stiles, and Stiles and Scott would help protect Jackson from the alphas. And, if it came to that, they’d protect Jackson from Derek himself.

Derek heard Isaac’s footsteps in the hall and resigned himself to the fact that he was about to face the worst part of this. Cora could already sense it; she was hiding behind a half-demolished wall as Derek stood by the windows, trying to gather the strength he’d need to kick Isaac out. He was about to make an orphan homeless.

Isaac was special. Out of all his betas, Isaac was the one Derek was closest to. In some ways, he was even closer to Isaac than he was to Cora, since he’d gone so long without seeing her. Isaac was brave and strong and unflinchingly loyal. He would die for Derek. And because Derek refused to let Isaac die for him, he was going to have to hurt him worse than any of the others.

He started with a flimsy excuse that having both Isaac and Cora in the loft was too much to handle. He briefly allowed himself to hope that maybe, just this once, something would be easy.

Of course, Isaac didn’t buy it. Nothing was ever easy. Not for Derek Hale.

“Did I do something wrong, Derek?”

The words cut Derek to the core.

No, Isaac hadn’t done anything wrong. Isaac had always done right by Derek. Derek wanted so badly to tell him that. He wanted to ruffle Isaac’s ridiculous curls and smell his stupid teenage boy scent and reassure him that he’d be the family that Isaac didn’t have anymore and that he could stay with Derek forever and they’d always be pack and nothing could change that.

But he couldn’t do any of that.

“You’re doing something wrong right now by not leaving,” said Derek. Even-toned. Distant. Like he didn’t care.

“Oh, come o--” Isaac protested.

Derek cut him off. “Get out.”

“Derek, please--” Isaac’s tone was growing desperate. Derek’s resolve was cracking, but he had to do this, he _had to_. Isaac would hate Derek for it, but at least he’d be alive.

“Get out,” Derek said more firmly.

“Come o--”

“Go!” Derek shouted as he threw the glass he was holding at Isaac’s head. The glass hadn’t even left Derek’s fingers before he regretted throwing it. That was it. All of the times he had let Isaac down, and this was the one where he truly failed him. This was the moment Derek became no better than Isaac’s abusive father.

The glass shattered on the support beam behind Isaac, who had covered his head and ducked. The look of hatred and betrayal on Isaac’s face was unbearable, but Derek managed to keep his expression impassive while Isaac grabbed his bag and stormed out.

Derek should’ve been used to losing family and pack members by now. His heart should’ve hardened, like scar tissue over a wound. It should’ve hurt less.

It didn’t.

But at least Isaac would be alive, unlike the others. Losing Isaac through hatred was better than losing him through death, wasn’t it? It had to be.

“You did the right thing,” Cora said softly as she emerged from the shadows, obviously because she thought that’s what Derek needed to hear. There was pain and regret in her voice. Even without being able to hear her pulse, Derek knew she was lying. If Cora were the alpha she would’ve kept the pack together. But if Cora were an alpha she wouldn’t have made a pack out of damaged teenagers. Cora, even being so young, would never have failed as utterly as Derek had.

“Bullshit,” said Derek bitterly. “I never should’ve turned him in the first place. Any of them.”

“Derek…” Cora walked toward him cautiously, but he shook his head and backed away. He didn’t want to be comforted. He didn’t deserve it. Isaac’s scent, soured slightly by bitterness and hurt, still hung in the air. Derek resisted the urge to open a window.

“They’re all going to die because of me,” he said, staring out into the dark. His throat felt tight when he spoke. “No matter what I do, that’s how this ends.”

“Not without a fight,” said Cora, the fierceness of her wolf in her voice.

Derek turned back toward her to find her eyes glowing golden. The alpha in him surged to the surface as well, his eyes glowing in response.

“Not without a fight,” he agreed.

Maybe it was time to stop waiting for the fight to come to them.

* * *

STILES

Stiles had his fingers wrapped around the handle of his bat (which he kept at his bedside now) before he recognized the silhouette in his window against the glow of the nearest street light. He glanced at the clock. It was almost midnight. He hadn’t been asleep very long, but it had been an exhausting day (again with the massive understatements).

“Jackson?” Stiles turned on his bedside lamp and squinted at the werewolf, blinking to get used to the light. He couldn’t think of a reason Jackson would be there since they’d just been together earlier that day. Unless something was wrong. Which was actually pretty likely. Especially after Cora’s mysterious abduction of Jackson. Anxiety hit Stiles cold in the chest and stomach. “Is everyone okay?”

Jackson nodded, and Stiles let out a sigh of relief. “Fuck, are you guys actively trying to make my panic attacks come back? I swear I’m losing a year of my lifespan every two days.”

It was pouring outside, Stiles suddenly realized. Jackson was drenched. Stiles didn’t have a chance to ask him why he was there before Jackson started pulling off his wet clothes, stripping down until he was just wearing his ridiculously expensive boxer-briefs (probably the only piece of clothing that was still dry). He couldn’t be serious. In theory, Stiles should be all in favor of another round. But it was the middle of the night and there was school the next day and at this point it would be a special treat for Stiles if he weren’t exhausted in class.

Without saying a word, Jackson crawled into bed with Stiles, settling in with about a foot of space between them (which was about as far away as he could get, considering the size of Stiles’ bed). Stiles frowned in confusion. Did Jackson want him to make a move? Tentatively, Stiles reached his hand out toward Jackson, but Jackson caught his forearm and pushed it gently back. Apparently he didn’t want Stiles to touch him.

Stiles almost asked Jackson what was wrong, because clearly something was wrong. But if Jackson hadn’t explained yet, he probably didn’t want to. Maybe it would be better to just accept that he was there and figure out what was going on later.

“My dad can’t know you were here, okay?” said Stiles softly.

Again, Jackson nodded, eyes strangely distant. He’d know to be gone by morning.

Stiles turned the lamp off and pulled the covers back up over himself and Jackson, who continued to keep a distance between them. Stiles found that he was unexpectedly glad Jackson was there. He didn’t have heightened wolf senses, but he could hear Jackson breathing and smell his familiar scent, which was mixed with rain. It was nice.

He was still feeling it, Stiles realized. That attachment, that possessiveness from earlier. The desire to know the version of Jackson who existed for Cora. And he needed to stop it before it got worse.

Stiles wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t let himself finally get over years of unrequited feelings for one person only to get tangled up in the same situation with someone else. He had too much self-respect now for that. He’d still fuck Jackson (because, let’s be real, that part was _fantastic_ ), but he wasn’t going to let himself hope it would develop beyond or outside of that. At the end of the day, they had a pretty good thing going. Stiles wouldn’t let himself ruin it.

* * *

JACKSON

It hurt. There was no other word that could come close to describing it. It just… hurt. Derek hadn’t disowned Jackson, but what good was being in a pack with an alpha who wouldn’t fully accept him? What good was being in a pack he wasn’t allowed to be near? Boyd and Isaac had no special attachment to Jackson, and even Cora would choose Derek over Jackson if it came to that.

Jackson was a werewolf in a pack with an alpha who didn’t want him, sleeping with an alpha who wanted him but wasn’t a werewolf and wasn’t pack.

He focused his eyes on Stiles in the dark. Watched him sleep. Smelled his scent. Remembered what they’d done together just a few hours ago in this bed. Remembered the unbearable look Stiles had given him. Dark eyes, pink lips, tousled hair: _beautiful_.

At least Jackson had this. If nothing else, at least he sometimes had Stiles, in some capacity, whatever it meant. At least in this room Jackson was wanted.

Stiles and his stupid baseball bat would keep Jackson safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maaan, we had that nice smutty scene and then I had to go and ruin it with a shit ton of angst. Fun, huh? I was not looking forward to writing the throwing-Isaac-out scene from Derek's perspective, but it had to be done. Can we all agree that all of these characters need hugs right now? Augh!
> 
> Timeline for this chapter: Second half of 3A, Episode 4 (which takes place in one day).
> 
> Thanks to all of you for reading and commenting and giving kudos and everything. You guys are pretty much the best. And as always, special thanks to my beta [Ismene_Jane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ismene_Jane) and [AradiaFirehawk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AradiaFirehawk).


	15. Safety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER FIFTEEN: SAFETY

STILES

Jackson was wearing a T-shirt. Not a button-down, not a Polo, not a Henley, not even a V-neck. Just a regular ol’ T-shirt. It was dark gray and it looked soft and Stiles wanted to touch it--no, he wanted to take it off--and tell Jackson he was good because he was totally doing this for Stiles and he was doing it _at school_. Jackson also didn’t have any gel in his hair, because Stiles had told him not to. It was still combed and stood up nicely, but it was fluffy and natural and--honestly?-- _cute_.

The overall effect was the Jackson equivalent (at least from Stiles’ perspective) of a girl showing up to school just wearing lingerie. Stiles had only said that Jackson couldn’t wear shirts with buttons or use hair gel when he came over to Stiles’ house. He was pretty sure Jackson remembered that. Which meant Jackson was a fucking _tease_ and Stiles was having a difficult time deciding whether that behavior should be punished or rewarded.

Stiles must’ve been wafting pheromones all over the place or something because both Scott and Isaac gave him grossed-out looks in class, and Stiles caught Jackson smirking to himself even though he was ignoring Stiles as usual. Yeahhh, there was no way Stiles was waiting until he got home to do something about this. On the way out of class, he casually dropped a crumpled up piece of paper next to Jackson’s bag. He caught Jackson’s eye and gave him a significant look before leaving the room.

The note read: ‘After school. Locker room. Not a request.’

To say that getting through the rest of the day was a ‘struggle’ would be akin to saying that the Civil War was a minor disagreement between neighbors.

“Seriously? The locker room?” said Jackson without warning from behind Stiles, who nearly jumped a foot into the air. Jackson smirked in self-satisfaction when Stiles recovered his balance and glared at him.

“Got a better idea?” said Stiles.

Jackson locked the door behind him to indicate that no, he did not have a better idea. Thankfully, none of the sports teams had practice after school today. Stiles and Jackson would be okay as long as they were out before the security guards started doing their after-school checks of all the rooms.

“Keep your ears perked,” said Stiles, and Jackson nodded in agreement. Werewolf senses were very useful when it came to not getting caught.

Stiles wasted no time after that. He moved toward Jackson, slipped a hand into his hair, and gripped it tightly. Jackson made an amazing little whimpering noise as his eyes slid closed. Stiles leaned in toward Jackson’s ear and said lowly, “Nice shirt.”

Jackson shivered.

The shirt _was_ soft, and probably obscenely expensive for something that didn’t look much different from any other T-shirt. Stiles backed Jackson up against the nearest wall, one hand still gripping his hair. He let his other hand slide over Jackson’s shirt, feeling his chest and stomach muscles through the fabric. He enjoyed the signs of impatience in Jackson’s expression at the fact that Stiles hadn’t kissed him yet. Stiles’ hand in his hair kept Jackson from trying to steal a kiss first.

“Did you do this for me?” said Stiles with a playful smile, still holding Jackson out of kissing range. (Of course, he could easily break Stiles’ grip, but that was part of the fun.) Jackson’s eyes were still closed. Stiles gave him a little shake to get his attention. “Hey, look at me.”

Jackson opened his eyes and fixed them with Stiles’. No glowy blue yet.

“Is this for me?” Stiles reiterated.

Jackson nodded slightly, but when Stiles tightened his grip on Jackson’s (adorably fluffy) hair, Jackson said, “Yes.”

“Good,” said Stiles, and rewarded Jackson with a kiss, which Jackson accepted eagerly. His hand braced on Stiles’ shoulder as he deepened the kiss, taking the lead like when he’d jumped Stiles before the First Inaugural Stiles-Jackson Sex Session. Stiles allowed Jackson to be in control for a minute while he slipped his free hand under Jackson’s impossibly soft shirt and ran his palm over the smooth skin of Jackson’s chest and back. Every now and then he would hit a ticklish or oversensitive spot, and Jackson would give a slight jerk, but Stiles’ grip on his hair held him in place.

Stiles reasserted his dominance when Jackson began nudging his hips forward into Stiles’. He nipped at Jackson’s tongue until it retreated, then slipped his own tongue into Jackson’s mouth. He kissed Jackson thoroughly until Jackson relaxed against the wall in surrender. Then he pinned Jackson to the wall with his hips, grinding forward into him as he fucked Jackson’s mouth with his tongue.

Jackson’s obscene groan was partially stifled by Stiles’ mouth, but it went straight to the pit of Stiles’ stomach. He shivered and grinded his hips more insistently into Jackson’s. They couldn’t fuck in the locker room. Apart from being gross and downright reckless, they didn’t have lube or time. It would have to wait. Stiles _hated_ waiting.

Stiles broke away from Jackson’s mouth, leaving him panting. He confused Jackson by taking a few steps back, tugging the beta wolf with him until Stiles’ back was pressed against the side of a bank of lockers with Jackson in front of him.

“On your knees,” said Stiles, relishing the brief pulse of glowing blue his words caused. Jackson obeyed so fast Stiles was concerned for his kneecaps as they connected with the concrete floor. Props to werewolf durability.

Jackson didn’t need to be told what to do beyond that. Stiles’ fingers slipped back into Jackson’s hair and gripped it loosely for leverage (and to keep contact with Jackson so he wouldn’t get too hazy) as Jackson nosed at Stiles’ cock through his not-baggy-enough corduroy pants.

“Fuck, your… your _scent_ ,” Jackson murmured, somewhat muffled so that Stiles had to focus to understand him. “All fucking day. Could smell you wanted me.”

Stiles bit back a laugh. ‘Fuck, your _scent_ ’ was the wolfiest thing Jackson had ever said. Too much time spent with Hales, clearly.

“Yeah, you and every wolf in the friggin’ school, based on the looks Scott and Isaac were giving me.” Stiles tried to stay still as Jackson unbuckled Stiles’ belt and nearly tore the button and zipper out of his fly--“Dude, seriously, I can’t afford to go shopping for new pants every time we do this.”--before he got Stiles’ pants and boxers down far enough that he could get to his cock.

As soon as Jackson’s mouth was on him, though, Stiles had the fleeting thought that this would totally be worth losing a pair of pants over. Or two. Or five. Or twelve. Hell, he didn’t even own twelve pairs of pants but he’d go buy more just so Jackson could destroy them.

“Good,” Stiles gasped as Jackson tried something new with his tongue. His grip on Jackson’s hair tightened, which Jackson (bless him) took as encouragement to try it again. Stiles looked down at Jackson and struggled to keep his eyes open so he could see the obscenely… well, _obscene_ … obscenely obscene scene that Jackson presented. He even had the audacity to look up at Stiles through half-lidded, glowing eyes as he ran his tongue slowly along the underside of Stiles’ cock from base to head.

And yep, that was gonna do it for Stiles. That mental image was going straight into the part of his spank bank that would never be overwritten. Then suddenly Stiles’ cock was back in Jackson’s mouth completely, and then he was pretty sure that the head of it was in Jackson’s _throat_ , and _holy shit_ Jackson was really pulling out all the stops.

Stiles felt a sudden surge of dominance in reaction to how much initiative Jackson was taking. He tightened his grip on Jackson’s hair so hard he was sure it must be painful, but Jackson only groaned around Stiles’ cock in response. Spurred on, Stiles took control and began thrusting into Jackson’s mouth, fucking it as deeply as he could, rough and sloppy and mind-blowingly fantastic. And just at the point when Stiles had the fleeting thought that even werewolves needed to _breathe_ , he came, groaning Jackson’s name loudly enough that any werewolf who was still on the school grounds could probably hear it, and maybe even some humans. Stiles gave zero fucks about that. In fact, he gave a negative number of fucks. He had a fucks deficit. Insufficient fucks to give.

After a pause during which Jackson swallowed and Stiles struggled to regain his breath, Stiles dragged Jackson back to standing by his hair and gave him a filthy kiss, tasting himself in Jackson’s mouth and kind of loving it. When Stiles pulled back, he noticed tear streaks on Jackson’s cheekbones. He frowned and wiped at one with his thumb.

“Gag reflex,” Jackson explained with a hazy, proud smile. Like it was a victory, an accomplishment, that he’d been able to withstand Stiles’, er, _enthusiasm_.

“Sorry,” said Stiles, feeling a twinge of guilt. Maybe he’d gotten carried away...

But Jackson shook his head and said, in a low voice (which was unsurprisingly rough from someone who’d just performed some pretty hardcore oral sex), “I liked it.”

Stiles mentally reminded his cock that it was not allowed to get hard again so soon after such a fantastic orgasm.

“Dude, I swear, half the time when you give me head it ends up looking like you’re the one who came.” Stiles rested his palm over Jackson’s cock through his jeans, which made Jackson inhale sharply. “Doesn’t feel like it, though.”

Jackson pressed his cock into Stiles’ hand. Stiles loved how insanely hard Jackson got from sucking Stiles off. Now he just needed to decide what to do about it. He could return the favor of a blowjob, but he kind of wanted to see Jackson’s face, wanted to kiss him more…

Stiles flipped Jackson around and backed him up against the nearest wall--not so much to trap him as to provide him with some support if he did that thing where he got all boneless and couldn’t stay up. Unlike Jackson, Stiles didn’t have the wolfy strength to support another guy’s weight and jack him off at the same time.

Stiles’ fingers were a little slow to obey his brain in his body’s post-orgasm state, but he managed to get his own fly and belt back in order before working on Jackson’s belt buckle as he went in for another kiss. The back of Jackson’s head hit the wall somewhat forcefully, but the aforementioned werewolf durability probably took care of that. He let Jackson control the kissing while he freed Jackson’s cock. Jackson’s hand moved to rest at the back of Stiles’ neck to hold him there loosely. He made a little whimper of objection when Stiles pulled back for a second to spit in his own hand (classy), but relaxed when he realized what was going on.

Stiles made do with saliva as best he could (maybe he should start carrying lube or lotion around…), but Jackson didn’t seem to mind the friction. He thrust into Stiles’ hand, the movement less frantic than it might’ve been earlier. It was amazing how much calmer Jackson could be after he made Stiles come. Stiles managed to break away from the kiss with minimal complaining from Jackson and move so he could slide his tongue along the shell of Jackson’s ear.

“Wish I could fuck you,” breathed Stiles against Jackson’s ear. “Felt so good. You were so fucking hot like that. Kept asking for more. Saying my name.”

Stiles was choosing to think of the previous day as if nothing had happened after they’d fucked. Cora whisking Jackson away right afterward, Stiles’ own feeling of loneliness, Jackson’s unexpected and ominously quiet middle-of-the-night return and subsequent sleepover… All of that was too complicated, too… dangerous.

Sex worked, though. What they were doing right now worked. It certainly seemed to be working for Jackson, who was breathing hard and thrusting more forcefully as Stiles tried to maintain a steady rhythm with his hand.

“So good,” said Stiles, his dominant side encouraged by Jackson’s reaction to his words. “Bent over for me. Letting me fuck you. Loving it. I told you you’d love it.”

Jackson bit his own lower lip and let his head fall back against the wall, panting now.

“Come for me like when I fucked you,” commanded Stiles. And Jackson obeyed.

The cum ended up almost exclusively on Stiles’ T-shirt, but again, he had a fucks deficit; negative fucks to give about it. He stripped off his flannel overshirt and the T-shirt, pulled the overshirt back on and buttoned it up, and balled up the T-shirt and put it in his bag. He’d just have to hope he didn’t run into any other werewolves before he could throw it in the washing machine.

“Good,” said Stiles belatedly as Jackson was getting his own clothing back in order. Stiles stepped back into Jackson’s space and kissed him again, slowly and calmly like the temporarily ultra-submissive side of him deserved. He ran his fingers through Jackson’s gel-free hair a few more times before pulling away again and shouldering his backpack.

“Great,” Stiles said with a grin as he unlocked the door, “now I’m gonna get a boner every time we change for practice.”

* * *

JACKSON 

“Is Derek fine with you being here?” said Jackson bitterly as Cora climbed through his window, which he was facing away from in bed. It sounded more petulant than he’d intended.

Jackson had really been hoping she wouldn’t come over that night. He’d had a nice lazy Saturday with Danny watching a superhero movie marathon and eating way too much pizza--an unremarkable way to hang out, but Jackson hadn’t realized how much he’d missed Danny--and now Cora was going to make him confront the feelings he’d been trying to ignore for two days.

Cora had let him down. She hadn’t said a word to defend him when Derek had told him to leave. Yeah, she’d tried to get Derek to care about Jackson, but she hadn’t tried hard enough. It was a stupid, unreasonable thought for Jackson to have, but while the rational part of him understood that Cora had always done everything she could for Jackson, a part of him still felt betrayed. A part of him felt like she’d chosen a side in the messy conflict between Jackson and Derek, and it hadn’t been Jackson’s side.

Cora was the only person in his pack who Jackson trusted, the only one who understood and accepted him and wanted him around. And now it looked like Derek was going to take her away from him, too.

A slight weight sank down on the bed behind him.

 _No_. He didn’t want Cora there. If she got too close, her scent and her touch would remind him of his pack bond. They’d make him forgive her, maybe even forgive Derek. He didn’t want to forgive them. He didn’t want to feel close to the pack. They didn’t deserve it.

“I know you don’t believe it, but he’s trying to protect you,” Cora said gently. He’s trying to protect all of us.”

Even her _voice_ tugged at his instinct to seek pack comfort. Jackson felt… _raw_. Derek’s rejection couldn’t have come at a worse time: the same day Stiles had first fucked him. Stiles had made Jackson more vulnerable--willingly vulnerable--than he’d ever felt. He’d gotten Jackson to take his armor off again. Only this time, Jackson hadn’t been careful enough to put it back on securely. His alpha’s cold words had found their way through chinks and loose joints into Jackson’s flesh.

And now Cora was here, making excuses for Derek like a mother trying to explain away a father’s abusive behavior to their child.

“It’d be great if he could make up his fucking mind about whether he wants me around,” spat Jackson, finally looking at Cora but keeping some distance between them on he bed.

“I know,” said Cora, in that same tone that made Jackson’s wolf whine for comfort. He was determined to resist it.

“No, you don’t,” said Jackson.

“Explain it to me, then.” Cora was being far more patient than usual: a sign that maybe she didn’t think Jackson had no legitimate reason to be upset.

“You were born a werewolf,” said Jackson. “Your alpha was your _mom_. And I’m sorry she’s dead now but at least you had an alpha who wanted you.”

“Derek _does_ want y--” Cora protested, but Jackson cut her off.

“He wants betas because they make him strong,” insisted Jackson. “That’s it.”

“Jackson--”

“He kicked Isaac out,” said Jackson, his pulse elevating with anger. “ _Isaac_. His fucking Golden Beta. If he doesn’t want Isaac around, he sure as hell doesn’t give a shit about what happens to _me_.”

“But he does--”

Cora reached out for Jackson, but he quickly pulled away.

“ _Don’t_.”

Jackson nearly winced at the sudden wave of hurt that radiated from Cora. She regarded him for a moment in silence, eyes sad.

“Well _I_ care,” said Cora finally. “You at least believe that, right?”

He did believe it. As angry as he was with her, as betrayed as he felt, he knew Cora cared about him. It just wasn’t enough right now.

“You should go,” said Jackson, forcing his tone not to waver.

“Jackson…”

“I don’t want you here,” said Jackson more firmly, a growl in his voice. His eyes flashed at Cora, who recoiled on instinct.

“Okay,” she said softly. “I… I’ll see you later.”

Jackson ignored her as she left. He barely hesitated before going to his closet to get Stiles’ shirt, which he’d been hiding there so Cora wouldn’t tease him about it. He hadn’t taken it out in a while, but after sleeping next to Stiles the other night and basically telling Cora to fuck off, Jackson’s bed felt… empty. He hadn’t slept alone much lately.

He walked by a mirror on the way back to his bed and paused there, Stiles’ shirt in his hand. Without giving it much conscious thought, Jackson slipped his arms through the sleeves and pulled it on over his own shirt. Jackson was more muscular and slightly broader-chested than Stiles, but Stiles wore his overshirts baggy, so it fit Jackson pretty well.

It looked absolutely ridiculous on Jackson. But it was so soft, worn down by probably years of wear and repeated washing. And it smelled so much like Stiles. Stiles’ scent was surrounding Jackson. Easing the anxiety that his argument with Cora had caused and soothing the lingering sting of Derek’s rejection. Jackson’s human alpha was the only person who could make him feel wanted now.

So Jackson left the shirt on. And he slept alone. And he dreamed of the gentle but commanding voice that calmed his brain and the warm, mole-speckled skin he always ached to have beneath his mouth and his fingers. The parts of Stiles that only Jackson saw. The parts that made Jackson feel special.

And when Jackson woke up still wearing the shirt, he didn’t hate himself for giving in. He’d been fighting a losing battle, and he was so achingly tired of fighting. If Derek or Cora really wanted Jackson around, they knew where to find him. Not being with his pack was painful, but begging for their attention wasn’t just pitiful, it was pointless.

So he’d focus on what he didn’t have to beg for. He’d take what he could get. And as long as Stiles kept wanting him and the alpha pack didn’t kill him, maybe he’d be okay for a little while.

* * *

DEREK 

“If you’re here to lecture me about Jackson and Isaac, you’re wasting your time,” said Derek as he opened the loft door to find Stiles standing there, hand poised to knock.

“Actually, no,” said Stiles. He followed Derek into the room and stood in the middle of it somewhat awkwardly. “I figure you must’ve had a good reason. You’ve been pretty shitty to Jackson, but I know you care about Isaac.”

Derek suppressed the spark of irritation caused by Stiles’ criticism of his treatment of Jackson and sat back down on the couch, where he’d been reading: a welcome and rare distraction from the death and mayhem that had become his status quo.

When Stiles didn’t explain why he was there (instead pacing back and forth in the middle of the room without speaking), Derek grew concerned. Stiles wasn’t giving off the scent of fear or distress, but he was definitely nervous.

“What’s wrong?” said Derek.

“What?” said Stiles, apparently confused. “Oh! Nothing. I mean, besides the usual Everyone’s In Grave Danger Situation. But, like, no new developments or anything. That I know of. Unless you know of any new developments?”

“Not really,” said Derek. For once. Hence the book. That he had been reading. Before Stiles had decided to come in and be _twitchy_ all over the place.

“Good,” said Stiles, and continued pacing, hands at their maximum level of fidgeting.

Derek regarded him expectantly, trying to communicate nonverbally that he’d like very much to have more than half an hour of quiet time alone before another life-threatening crisis landed on his doorstep. “So…”

“Huh?” said Stiles, pausing in his pacing and looking over at Derek.

“If nothing’s wrong, why are you here?”

“I, uh….” Stiles stood (relatively) still in front of Derek, but his fingers didn’t stop fidgeting. “I wanted to talk to you, actually.”

Derek raised an eyebrow at Stiles. He couldn’t fathom what Stiles would want to say to him alone that didn’t involve giving him shit about the way he ran his pack. Especially not something that would make Stiles this twitchy.

“Yeah?” said Derek, since that wasn’t really an explanation.

Stiles frowned and chewed on his bottom lip in indecision before continuing. “I just… I have some stuff I wanna talk about, and I think you’re the only person who… who might get it.”

Now Stiles seemed a little embarrassed in addition to nervous. Derek’s curiosity was piqued.

“Like what?”

Stiles looked like it was taking a significant amount of effort to keep from pacing as he stood in front of Derek’s coffee table. He was clearly avoiding Derek’s eyes. Curiosity definitely piqued.

“Okay, so I know I’m not an alpha,” Stiles launched in. “I’m just a human kid who yelled at a beta werewolf and also hit him with a baseball bat and accidentally made him submit.”

Derek didn’t respond because he knew Stiles well enough that he could tell he was going to continue. He hadn’t heard the story behind Jackson’s submission to Stiles before and had to admit a grudging respect for the teen standing in front of him, spazziness aside. Stiles’ ‘yelling’ must have been pretty forceful to tame a beta like Jackson.

“And also I guess I smell good to him?” said Stiles, eyes briefly glancing up to meet Derek’s before fixing on a point to the right of him. Derek suppressed a smile at the awkward way Stiles said the words werewolves often used to describe attraction based on pheromones. Stiles must have smelled pretty damned good to Jackson if it was enough for Jackson to overcome his obvious dislike of Stiles. Derek almost felt sorry for Jackson for a moment. He himself had felt that kind of hunger before: ‘lust at first scent.’ It was very difficult to resist.

“Get to the point,” said Derek. Because as interesting as this was, Stiles could be exhausting, and Derek’s precious few hours of peace were rapidly disappearing.

“I’m trying,” said Stiles, still fidgeting. He took a deep breath, then let it out. “Okay. Do you ever… Do you worry that they do what you say because it’s instinct?” Stiles finally looked at Derek and held eye contact as he added, “Your betas, I mean.”

Derek considered Stiles for a moment before answering. Stiles wanted alpha advice. He had control over a beta, but had none of the instincts or experience that a born--or even a bitten--wolf would have. Derek tried to imagine what that would be like, but couldn’t. He was a born wolf with strong instincts, and even _he_ was struggling with how to be an alpha. But the answer to Stiles’ question was relatively simple.

“I don’t worry,” said Derek, shrugging. “I know they do.”

Stiles frowned. That clearly wasn’t the answer he’d been hoping for. “All the time?”

Derek thought about what his betas had done under his orders. There had been a lot they disagreed with, or were afraid of, or confused about, but most of the time they’d obeyed. Even if sometimes he’d had to growl or flash his eyes to get them to submit.

“I don’t know,” said Derek, looking down at his hands, which were clasped over his thighs where his forearms rested. “Maybe not Isaac, but…”

But Isaac was gone. Derek had hurt his most loyal beta and sent him running. He’d used his authority to order Isaac to leave. He’d betrayed his alpha instincts. He’d damaged the pack bond. Derek probably wasn’t the best alpha Stiles could’ve come to for advice...

“Did you ever…” Stiles shifted awkwardly. “Like... not just with Isaac, but maybe Erica or something?”

“Did I--?” Derek’s eyes widened when he realized what Stiles was asking. He wanted to know if Derek had _sex_ with his _teenage_ betas. “What? No!”

Stiles winced at Derek’s reaction. “I just--”

“Erica is-- _was--_ sixteen years old,” said Derek vehemently. “And Isaac’s barely seventeen. Do you really think I’d do something like that?” He was surprised by how much the insinuation stung, especially coming from Stiles, who he thought knew him better than that. Did other people think he was capable of that? Did they see him as that kind of monster, too?

Stiles shrugged awkwardly. “Had to ask, considering...”

“Considering that _you’re_ screwing a beta?” Derek resisted the urge to say ‘ _my_ ’ beta. Dredging up the issue of Jackson’s loyalties wouldn’t help Derek’s tenuous friendship (or whatever this was) with Stiles.

Stiles nodded, avoiding Derek’s eyes again. “Do you know any werewolf alphas who…”

Derek anticipated him. For once, Stiles was having trouble getting words out, and Derek still had a book he wanted to finish in the next five years. “Do I know any alphas who’ve had sex with their betas?”

Stiles’ pulse sped up slightly for a moment and his cheeks flushed. “Yeah.”

Okay, Stiles must’ve been seriously distracted by his own predicament, because a kid that smart should’ve figured out how sex in packs must work.

“Of course,” said Derek. “Most alphas have mates eventually. An alpha’s mate is part of their pack. So almost every alpha sleeps with at least one of their betas at some point.”

“...Oh,” said Stiles. He seemed to be realizing that this should’ve been obvious to him.

“Hang on,” said Derek, a thought suddenly occurring to him. “Why are you asking about this now? I thought you guys had been having sex for a while.”

If it were possible, Stiles looked even more awkward and embarrassed. Interesting. “Nah. Other stuff, yeah, but not…”

Derek rolled his eyes. “If you’re old enough to do it, you’re old enough to say the word.”

“Not _sex_ ,” said Stiles. “Not till a couple days ago, anyway.”

“Seriously?” This genuinely surprised Derek. The degree of loyalty Jackson’s wolf had to Stiles and the length of time it had apparently been going on had made Derek sure that sex had been involved for weeks, if not longer.

“Yeah,” said Stiles, somewhat defensive.

“So the other night...” _Shit_. The night Derek had told Jackson to leave and kicked Isaac out had likely been the same day Stiles and Jackson had had sex for the first time. Sex that probably involved some pretty intense submission. Derek groaned internally. He had essentially rejected a vulnerable beta who had just had a bonding experience with another alpha. It would be a miracle if Derek ever earned Jackson’s full allegiance now. And it would be an even bigger miracle if he could somehow deserve it.

“Yeah,” repeated Stiles, apparently unaware of Derek’s depressing epiphany. “I... I haven’t talked to anyone about it.”

Stiles stopped moving as he made the admission. He had a strange expression on his face, like he was… sad, maybe? Lost. Conflicted.

“Not even Scott?” said Derek, confused.

Stiles shook his head. “If it was someone else, maybe, but it’s _Jackson_. If somebody’d told me a year ago that I’d lose my virginity to the guy whose very existence has basically mocked everything I wanted out of life for the past decade--”

“Wait, Jackson was your first?” Another surprise. Sure, Stiles was only seventeen, but Derek had been younger than that when Kate…

Derek forced down a wave of emotion that always threatened to overwhelm him when he thought about that period of his life. It still hurt, after all this time. Derek suspected it would probably always hurt.

“First. Only. Maybe last, considering how things are going.” Stiles gave a rueful laugh as he watched his own hands fidget. “Not feeling too optimistic about my life expectancy lately.”

Derek watched Stiles for a moment, listened to his pulse, focused in on his scent. Stiles wasn’t in a good place right now. His heart, posture, scent all projected anxiety and loneliness. Not exactly what one usually expected from a teenage boy who’d just had sex for the first time.

Stiles stood helplessly in silence in front of Derek until Derek spoke: “So you haven’t told _anyone_ you had sex except…”

“Except you,” confirmed Stiles. His tone was difficult to read.

Derek didn’t know what to say to that at first. It had been a long time since someone had confided something this personal to him, and it wasn’t as if Derek and Stiles were that close. It was strangely… flattering. And reassuring, since a few minutes ago Stiles had implied some pretty horrible things about Derek’s character.

Derek could sense Stiles’ anxiety rising the longer Derek didn’t respond. To keep him from bolting, Derek shifted to one side of the couch and gestured for Stiles to sit on the other end.

“That must suck,” said Derek, trying to sound nonthreatening. This was something of a new experience for Derek: counseling someone younger than him through a normal life experience completely unrelated to werewolves or life-threatening situations. It was a surprisingly nice feeling. Derek’s nice feelings were few and far between, so he’d take it.

Stiles hesitated, but did sit down next to Derek, though his foot tapped incessantly on the floor as he continued to fidget.

“Yep,” said Stiles, playing it off like it wasn’t a big deal. Like Derek couldn’t tell, even without wolf senses, that he was full of shit.

“Is that why it’s so important to you to?” said Derek, finally beginning to understand how all of this was connected. “To know how much power an alpha has over a beta?”

Stiles shrugged noncommittally. “He does pretty much everything I tell him to. I thought maybe... maybe he doesn’t actually want to.”

The unspoken full version of that sentence was, _Maybe he doesn’t actually want to have sex with me_. Stiles was worried he was abusing his authority as an alpha figure to Jackson.

“That’s not how it works,” said Derek, trying to make his tone reassuring. “Werewolves aren’t just slaves to their instincts. We’re still part human.”

“But you said--”

“I said my betas do what I say because it’s instinct. I didn’t say they do _everything_ I say.” Derek cursed himself for not being able to explain it better. But some things about being a werewolf were difficult to lay out like a rule book.

“So if you told one of them to fuck you--” Stiles cut himself off when Derek couldn’t hold back a growl of distaste. He knew Stiles wasn’t actually accusing him of doing something that despicable, but he still didn’t like thinking about it. Derek might be a bad alpha, but he’d never be _that_ kind of alpha. He was a werewolf, not a _monster_.

“A command from me wouldn’t magically make them want me if they didn’t before,” said Derek, the thought of it repelling both his human and wolf sides. “I’d still have to… force them. I doubt you’d be able to do that to Jackson.”

“Not with this frail human physique, that’s for sure,” said Stiles, cracking a genuine smile, however briefly. He sighed. “Only in a world full of supernatural creatures does a guy like me end up in bed with a guy like that. Especially more than once.”

“But that’s my point,” insisted Derek. “Just because he has beta instincts doesn’t mean that’s the only reason he wants you. And it definitely doesn’t mean he’s doing something against his will.”

Stiles rubbed at his face with his hands before letting them fall to his lap, as if the conversation were exhausting. His gaze focused on the space between him and Derek on the couch.

“Everyone wants to feel special,” said Stiles quietly. He was smiling as he said it, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

And that was really the crux of the matter. Yes, Stiles was noble enough to worry that he was taking advantage of Jackson. But he was also worried that there was nothing about him that Jackson was attracted to beyond Stiles’ authority over Jackson’s wolf. That’s where the hint of loneliness surrounding Stiles right now was coming from. Stiles wanted to be wanted as a person, not just a role. And who could blame him? Like he’d said, everyone wanted to feel special, and from what Derek understood about Stiles’ life, very few people made him feel that way.

Derek felt an unexpected twinge of affection for Stiles. He’d never been good at acknowledging how remarkable Stiles could be for someone so young, and lately he’d been determinedly ignoring it because he’d been seeing Stiles as a rival. He’d taken Stiles for granted. Derek didn’t deserve Stiles’ trust, and Stiles deserved better.

“Stiles…” Derek fixed his eyes on his own hands, because sincerity was hard for him. “You do everything we do, and you don’t have any superhuman abilities. You figure things out when the rest of us can’t. You _are_ special.”

He could feel Stiles staring at him. For once, the chatterbox was speechless.

“Anyone who doesn’t see that or forgets it is an idiot.” Derek forced himself to look up at Stiles and gave him a very slight smile. “Including me.”

Stiles cleared his throat before responding. “Thanks, Derek.”

They sat next to each other in awkward silence for about half a minute before Stiles got up and said he needed to run some errands for his dad before it got too late. Derek nodded his understanding and picked his book back up as Stiles headed to the door. After a pause, he put it back down again.

“Stiles?” he called from the couch.

Stiles turned back around in the doorway. “Yeah?”

Derek tried to keep his face and tone as impassive as possible as he spoke: “Take care of him for me. Isaac’s got Scott now, but Jackson… he’s going to need you.”

“How’m I supposed to take care of a werewolf?” said Stiles. “Frail human physique, remember?”

“You’ll find a way if you have to,” said Derek, kindly. “Like I said, you’re the one who figures things out.”

Stiles opened his mouth like he was going to say something, then closed it. He nodded at Derek before turning to leave.

After Stiles was gone, Derek picked his book back up. His eyes scanned the words, but their meaning didn’t reach his brain. His mind was preoccupied with an irritatingly noble teenage boy who had just trusted Derek with some very personal information that he hadn’t shared with anyone else.

 _Take care of him for me._ The words had left Derek’s mouth before he’d really registered what he was saying. He had just unconsciously come to a better understanding of Stiles’ relationship to Derek’s pack. Stiles wasn’t competition for the loyalty of Derek’s first beta; he was an ally, maybe even a friend. Stiles wasn’t taking his beta away from Derek; he was helping Derek keep his beta safe.

And if Derek was ever going to be half the alpha Talia had been, he needed to remember that the safety of his betas was more important than their loyalty. It was more important than Derek’s authority. It was more important than anything. An alpha should be willing to lay down his life for his betas without hesitation. It was a small thing, then, to lay down his pride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my God I'm FINALLY BACK! I can hardly believe it! Seriously, the time it took me to update is shameful D: I won't bore you with the details, but my Master's thesis/dissertation is all handed in and marked and school is DONE, so with any luck there will never be a delay between chapters this long again (touch wood).
> 
> ANYWAY. Thank you all for being so patient, especially those who left kudos and commented during the hiatus. That stuff is always super motivating, but especially so when I'm stressing about wanting to update. I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter and that you'll continue to enjoy the fic as it progresses. Still so much left to write!
> 
> Timeline: This chapter takes place roughly during the first half of 3A, episode 5.
> 
> Special thanks to my beta [Ismene_Jane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ismene_Jane) and [AradiaFirehawk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AradiaFirehawk).
> 
> Yay!


	16. Fatality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER SIXTEEN: FATALITY

STILES

Derek had given Stiles a lot to think about. (If you wanted to go the ‘massive understatement’ route again.) Stiles was infinitely grateful that Jackson didn’t come over on Sunday night, because he needed some serious time to process.

It wasn’t just beta instinct, after all. At least, instinct was only how it had started. Stiles had an alpha’s power over Jackson’s wolf, but that didn’t mean he also had power over Jackson’s human side. Stiles couldn’t fuck Jackson if Jackson didn’t want it. Stiles couldn’t get close to Jackson if Jackson didn’t want it. Stiles couldn’t make Jackson want him. Yet Jackson did.

Knowing that fact should’ve been a relief to Stiles. And it was, at first. But relief soon gave way to Stiles’ persistent insecurities. Because as great as it was to know that Jackson wanted him, there was still one crucial question left unanswered: What exactly did Jackson want?

It was supposed to be just physical. They had both agreed to that, explicitly and implicitly. What they did together was hot and fun and provided both of them with a distraction and a refuge from the chaos and suffering that assaulted them on a daily basis. Stiles had been stupid enough to think that he could keep things that way indefinitely, that he could separate chemistry from caring. It was beginning to look like he couldn’t. Could Jackson?

Stiles thought about how it felt to curl around Jackson and pet his hair and tell him he was good. The way Jackson always submitted to Stiles, without question and with complete trust. The fact that Jackson had started to obey Stiles outside his bedroom. The genuine (if hazy) smiles Jackson sometimes gave him after he made Stiles come. And the other night, when Jackson had shown up rain-soaked and silent and slept in Stiles’ bed until morning. It had to mean _something_. Didn’t it?

Then Stiles remembered the frustration and pain Jackson had caused him. Hell, the whole thing had started with Stiles _hitting_ Jackson and _I hate you, I_ hate _you_. It had been born in violence and base instinct, and in some ways it hadn’t strayed very far away from that. And Stiles… Stiles _liked_ the violence. There was a reason he got off on Jackson’s glowing eyes. There was a reason he liked sharp teeth and claws.

The sense of power that came with taming the monster in Jackson was still intoxicating. It was like playing with fire, like courting death and coming out unscathed. Jackson could rip Stiles to pieces in seconds, but instead he begged Stiles to fuck him. Stiles was the alpha with Jackson. There was no point in denying it anymore: Stiles was the alpha, and he liked being the alpha. He really, _really_ liked it.

Maybe, in the end, it didn’t matter what Jackson wanted from Stiles. Maybe it didn’t matter how Stiles felt about Jackson. Maybe attachment had been inevitable. Maybe there were bound to be moments that showed it wasn’t just sex anymore. But what did it change, really? Even if Jackson’s behavior _meant something_ , it wasn’t like Jackson would ever admit it. It wasn’t like there was a future in it. And if Stiles had learned anything in the last year, it was that wanting things you could never have didn’t help anybody.

There was no point in dwelling on it. The best thing to do was to ignore the fact that it was messy and complicated and just keep doing it, because it would be messy and complicated either way, so why not? At least Stiles knew he wasn’t taking advantage of Jackson now. At least he was free of the anxiety and guilt that had been plaguing him.

Jackson wanted Stiles. Stiles wanted to give him what he wanted. Whatever happened because of it would happen.

On Monday, Stiles was the one who didn’t put any stuff his hair. It felt to him like it was too long that way, and the difference in the sensation was distracting. But Stiles could feel Jackson’s eyes on him, and the expression on Jackson’s face when he snuck glances was totally worth it. He imagined Jackson was thinking about grabbing Stiles’ hair as they committed unspeakable acts of depravity. Scott and Isaac spent the day giving Jackson grossed-out looks this time, much to Stiles’ profound enjoyment.

Stiles counted twenty-three minutes and forty-seven seconds between the time he got home from school and when Jackson knocked on Stiles’ front door. This resulted in them making out on the long couch in the living room because Jackson started kissing Stiles before they could get to the stairs. Stiles let Jackson be on top, let him grip Stiles’ hair, and let him know that it felt good by kissing and biting into the skin of Jackson’s lips, neck, ears; anything he could get his mouth near with Jackson’s fingers in his hair. Jackson groaned and tugged harder.

“Somebody’s feisty today,” Stiles murmured between rough kisses.

“You smell good,” said Jackson, by way of explanation.

“Will I still--” Stiles was cut off by another kiss. “--still smell good upstairs?”

“Hn?” said Jackson distractedly.

“Upstairs, dumbass,” said Stiles, trying to extricate Jackson’s fingers from his hair without any of it getting pulled out. “No way I’m fucking you in the same room where I watch sitcoms with my dad.”

Jackson came to his senses (at least partially) at the word ‘fucking,’ and hauled himself up off Stiles. He let Stiles take his wrist and lead him up to Stiles’ room. Stiles slammed the door shut behind them perhaps a bit overenthusiastically; Jackson gave a little doglike jump at the loud noise. Fucking _adorable_.

They undressed each other hastily, Stiles stripping another touchably soft T-shirt off of Jackson’s torso while Jackson tugged at the sleeves of Stiles’ flannel overshirt impatiently. Belt buckles clicked against each other, buttons were unbuttoned and zippers unzipped, and then a very naked human boy was shoving an equally naked werewolf onto the aforementioned human boy’s bed. Stiles climbed on top of Jackson and straddled his hips, smirking down at him in victory.

Jackson’s eyes were glowing as he gazed back up at Stiles, pupils wide, lips pink and slightly parted. Jackson was pure sex in that moment. Sex incarnate. Sex _personified_. Like, if someone wrote a poem about sex and wanted to portray it with humanlike qualities, it would just be a poem about Jackson. Jackson who had become the distilled essence of sex.

And the best thing to do with sex was to, well, _do_ it.

Stiles had to get off Jackson to reach the lube, and within the few seconds that his back was turned, Jackson had shifted onto his hands and knees. Stiles had considered suggesting another position, but if this is what Jackson wanted, he was fine with it. It was probably the easiest one anyway. Easier was better: less chance of Stiles screwing something up and embarrassing himself.

Jackson was a lot more relaxed than their first time when Stiles began stretching him out with his fingers. He breathed evenly, emitting a small sound of pleasure every now and then. When he began rocking back into Stiles’ hand, Stiles withdrew his fingers and positioned himself between Jackson’s knees. The sound Jackson made when Stiles pushed in and bottomed out was absolutely obscene: relief, pleasure, and hunger all rolled into one animalistic groan.

Stiles was slow and careful at first, like before, but Jackson didn’t seem to need much time to adjust now. He fucked back against Stiles until Stiles increased his pace. When wordless requests apparently didn’t get his point across to Stiles, Jackson started asking for more--breathy “faster”s and “harder”s and “don’t stop”s--and then he began begging, whimpering, whining, pleading for “more,” “please,” “so good,” and repeating Stiles’ name and the words “yeah” and “fuck” and “oh God” over and over again when Stiles did what he wanted. It got to the point where Stiles was worried he might hurt Jackson. Sure, the guy had werewolf healing, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel pain.

“Not that it’s not _insanely_ hot,” said Stiles, desperately trying to preserve his stamina, “but you don’t have to beg. If you don’t want to.”

“I know,” said Jackson, voice breathy.

The implication that Jackson knew he was begging and _wanted_ to do it was too much for Stiles. He might’ve been able to hold out a little longer, but then he noticed that Jackson’s fingernails were a little pointier than usual, and that he was gripping the sheets so tightly his knuckles were white.

“Look at me,” commanded Stiles, his voice unexpectedly rough.

When Jackson looked back at over his shoulder, Stiles was met with glowing blue eyes. And that was it. Stiles cursed and gasped out Jackson’s name as he came, fingers digging into Jackson’s hips, holding him in place until he was finished.

Jackson collapsed onto his stomach as soon as Stiles rolled off of him, like his arms were too weak to support him (a ridiculous thought considering he was a werewolf). Stiles belatedly remembered that he wasn’t the only one who enjoyed orgasms and that he should probably help Jackson out, but when he got Jackson to shift onto his side, he found cum-stained sheets instead of a neglected hard-on. Okay, that was kinda really hot.

“That good, huh?” teased Stiles.

The evidence spoke for itself, so Jackson didn’t have to.

“Maybe I should designate a set of sheets for werewolf sex,” Stiles mused as he traced a rip in the fabric near Jackson’s shoulder with his finger. Claw damage. Also kinda really hot.

Jackson didn’t respond, but Stiles hadn’t expected him to. It would probably be at least ten minutes before Jackson would attempt speech again. In his current state--approximately ninety seconds after they’d both achieved pretty respectable orgasms and collapsed in a heap of sweaty skin, lube, and cum--he probably wasn’t even aware that Stiles was talking.

Stiles enjoyed talking to Jackson when Jackson couldn’t answer.

“I’m gonna start charging you for laundry bills and damaged property, too,” said Stiles. His voice sounded slow, almost drunken, and a little hoarse to his own ears. (Jackson had a habit of doing that to him.) “Pretty sure you can afford it.”

Stiles watched Jackson’s face during the calm, rare minutes before he reverted into his usual stuck-up, emotionally repressed, complete and utter asshole-y self. For the moment he was blissed-out, sex-drunk, small and submissive and vulnerable. A completely different, ephemeral (to use Scott’s new favorite PSAT word) person.

Stiles got his arm around Jackson and pulled him back against Stiles’ chest, holding him there loosely. He pressed--well, _nuzzled_ , if you wanted to get technical about it, because he’d been spending way too much time around werewolves, apparently--his face into the space below Jackson’s ear so he could initiate the Positive Reinforcement Protocol.

“Good,” he murmured. “That was really good.”

Jackson emitted a small, pleased kind of sound. Almost like… _relief_. It reminded Stiles of a quiet version of the happy sound a dog sometimes makes when it gets a ‘good boy’ and a pat on the head.

And that brief moment completely destroyed everything Stiles had decided after talking to Derek.

It did matter. Fuck everything to hell and back with a detour into purgatory to stop for gas, it _mattered_ to Stiles and there was no way to make it not matter. It mattered that this had clearly become more than sex. It mattered that there was an attachment between them. It mattered that there was no future in it, and Stiles wasn’t strong enough to keep himself from wanting things he could never have. He would always, _always_ lose that battle. It was messy and complicated and it was only going to get worse. Like drowning, it had the potential to be agony now and then hell later on.

As he held Jackson, Stiles started to understand that when Derek had asked him to look after Jackson, it hadn’t been just about protecting him from getting physically hurt. It had been a plea from one alpha to another, asking Stiles to take responsibility for Derek’s beta because Derek couldn’t be there for Jackson right now, physically or emotionally. Stiles didn’t know exactly why Derek was pushing Isaac and Jackson away, but he could sense that there was fear and a genuine concern for them behind it (for once).

Derek needed Stiles--scrawny, powerless, hopelessly human Stiles--to look after his beta’s wellbeing. Derek trusted Stiles with that responsibility. Derek thought Stiles was _special_. Maybe… Maybe Jackson needed Stiles. Maybe Jackson trusted him. Maybe, Stiles allowed himself to hope, just _maybe_ … Jackson thought Stiles was special, too.

_Take care of him for me. He’s going to need you._

But it was so much easier said than done. Derek had no idea what he was asking Stiles to do. Stiles could put himself in harm’s way for Jackson if necessary; he did that all the time for Scott and the rest of their friends and family. Hell, he’d already done it when Jackson was the Kanima. But trying to give Jackson what the wolf side of him clearly needed--attention and approval (generally in conjunction with sexual activity)--came at a price for Stiles. With Jackson basking in Stiles’ praise, being vulnerable and trusting him completely, Stiles was painfully aware that he wanted this. He wanted this and more.

Stiles had promised himself the other night, when Jackson was in his bed, that he wouldn’t let Jackson be the next Lydia, that he had too much self-respect for that. Derek was asking Stiles to give up his self-respect so a damaged teenage boy wouldn’t fall to pieces. And Stiles would have to risk damaging himself in the process. Stiles was _already_ being damaged by it.

Jackson drew in a deep breath and sighed it out through his nose. That meant his cognitive functions were starting to come back online and he might start registering Stiles’ presence. Stiles indulged in one last moment of connection with Jackson’s submissive side before it retreated again.

“You’re good,” he whispered against Jackson’s ear.

Pulling away from Jackson so things wouldn’t get awkward caused Stiles’ chest to ache. Wanting more would hurt him, but he’d want it anyway.

Fuck it. Everyone else was miserable. Why should Stiles get a break?

* * *

JACKSON 

In the shower afterward, Jackson again felt the need to give Stiles shit about his cheap shampoo and body wash while trying not to let Stiles’ lazy post-sex mouth-and hand-wandering distract him.

“I’m gonna need another fucking shower,” complained Jackson. But he wouldn’t take another shower. He’d go home smelling like Stiles, inside and out, and he’d wallow in it for the rest of the night. Nothing made his wolf calmer or more content than being coated in Stiles’ scent, and Jackson needed his wolf to be calm so his human side could be calm. There was plenty to be stressed out about in his life already.

“Maybe another fucking before another fucking shower?” said Stiles, grinning against Jackson’s shoulder (Jackson couldn’t see it, but he could feel it and hear it in Stiles’ tone). The guy was somehow both tired and _giddy_ after sex, like he was high or something.

“What time is it?” said Jackson. Like he had somewhere important to be. He didn’t, but he also didn’t want to seem too eager to stay with Stiles.

“I dunno, check your phone,” said Stiles as Jackson stepped out of the shower.

There was no way in hell Jackson was going to check his phone. He’d had it on silent since his fight with Cora on Saturday. If someone really needed to reach him, they could get a hold of his parents or Lydia or Danny (or Stiles, if they knew about him and Stiles). He didn’t want to hear from Derek or Cora. He didn’t want to text or see or talk to them. All they’d brought him lately was misery, and he had more than enough of that in his life already, thanks.

Jackson wrapped a towel around his waist and went back to Stiles’ room to check the clock on the nightstand instead. Not even dinnertime yet.

“Dad’s not coming home till late,” said Stiles, toweling his hair dry as he emerged from the hallway. A thinly-veiled invitation to stay for another round.

Jackson debated with himself for a moment. He had already complicated things with Stiles by showing up the other night after Derek had kicked him out. Just because he’d accepted that he needed Stiles didn’t mean that he wanted Stiles to know that he did. Jackson never let slip that he needed anyone, or any _thing_ for that matter, if he could help it. The last thing he wanted was to come off as _needy_. He’d learned to swallow a hell of a lot of his pride during the past several months, but he didn’t think he could bear that.

His eyes traveled from Stiles’ bare feet up his bare body to his face, which was bare in its own way: relaxed and… warm. Stiles’ hair was getting fluffy as it started to dry. One corner of Jackson’s lips turned up ever-so-slightly in an unconscious reaction to how Stiles managed to look both ridiculous and attractive--at least to Jackson--at the same time, before Jackson realized what he was doing and forced his mouth back into the neutral expression he had carefully cultivated.

“You’re thinking too much,” said Stiles. “Stop.”

“Make me,” Jackson surprised himself by saying. It came out as a challenge, but inside it was a plea. He needed Stiles to make him stop thinking. And he was going to need it whether he let himself have it or not...

So he let Stiles pull him back down onto the bed, and they kissed, slower and lazier this time, while Stiles’ fingers trailed over Jackson’s skin in random patterns. It was dangerously close to being tender, so Jackson bit at Stiles’ skin or dug his fingertips in a little too hard every once in a while, reminding both of them what this was, and more importantly, what it was _not_.

If they kept kissing, kept touching, maybe fucked again, then Jackson wouldn’t have to leave yet. He’d have an excuse to stay a little longer, put off the inevitable return to his empty bedroom to sleep alone (if he was lucky and Cora didn’t barge in). He could put off thinking about Derek’s rejection, Cora’s betrayal, Isaac’s and Boyd’s indifference.

Stiles told Jackson how good he was again and again until the word lost all meaning; it was just a hypnotic sound that filled Jackson’s head and chased his thoughts away. As usual, Derek’s words were the hardest ones to wash out.

 _You shouldn’t be here in the first place_.

“Good” was whispered against Jackson’s ear.

_Go home, Jackson._

“Good” gasped from behind him.

_Don’t come here unless I call you._

“Good” murmured into his sweat-damp hair.

_Now go._

Jackson had obeyed. He had gone. He had fled through the rain to the first place that had registered as ‘home’.

Before Stiles’ voice consumed his consciousness completely, one last thought fixed itself in Jackson’s mind:

That was the last order he was ever going to take from Derek Hale.

* * *

DEREK 

_Why do we need this kid?_ Cora had asked as they’d stood around the table in Derek’s loft, planning their preemptive strike against the alpha pack.

And Derek had told her, _This_ kid _helped save your life_.

Scott had probably saved all their lives, at one point or another. Multiple times. Now he was trying to do it again. Scott, the peacemaker: the _kid_ who persisted (to the point of idiocy) in believing that bloodshed could be avoided, that people could be reasoned with. Even people like Deucalion.

Maybe it was just as well that Jackson hadn’t answered the phone when Derek had called to tell him to meet them at the loft. Maybe it was just as well that Stiles, Lydia, and Allison weren’t there, either. Because, despite Scott’s brave (again, to the point of idiocy) attempt at conflict resolution, everyone here in opposition to the alpha pack--Derek, Scott, Isaac, Cora, Boyd--was going to die. Painfully. Maybe quickly if the alphas were feeling merciful. (This didn’t seem likely.)

Derek forced back the fear that sunk cold in his stomach. Not at the thought of his own death, but at the thought that, despite everything he had tried to do to protect them, his betas would die tonight, brutally and violently. Derek would watch his pack and Scott, ‘this _kid_ ’, bleed out on the dirty floor of an abandoned shopping mall.

 _Not without a fight_.

Derek had promised Cora. Not without a fight.

So they fought. And to their credit and Derek’s pride, Derek’s pack (and Scott) did put up a decent fight. For about thirty seconds.

It was chaos. Isaac and Scott were no match for the twins in their ‘uberalpha’ (as Stiles called it) form, Ennis had Boyd on the ground with what seemed like very little effort, and Derek’s own attempts at attacking Kali were laughably ineffective, ending with her pinning Cora to the ground under her foot. Deucalion didn’t even bother entering the ‘battle’.

“Kill him,” the self-proclaimed Alpha of Alphas commanded Derek, indicating Boyd. “The others can go.”

Derek was surprised to feel a twinge of beta-like submissive instinct in reaction. It made him feel like a coward, but it was so compelling. Derek would never kill one of his own betas. He’d die first. But deep within him stirred the urge to obey. Deucalion really was that powerful.

“Are we serious with this kid?” said Kali, a mocking laugh in her voice. “Look at him! He’s an alpha--to what? A couple of useless teenagers?”

 _Useless teenagers_. Derek growled inwardly. Maybe he’d fucked up when he’d turned teenagers into his betas, but they were _not_ useless. They were some of the bravest and most loyal wolves he’d ever known. They were worth _ten_ of these cowardly alphas, who attacked other wolves that didn’t stand a chance against them.

“What’ll it be, Derek?” said Kali as she began crushing Cora’s neck beneath her bare, clawed foot. “Pack, or family?”

It was an impossible choice. Cora was his sister, his pack since she was born. But he’d _made_ Boyd. Cora was born into the dangerous life of a werewolf, but Derek had brought Boyd into it. He couldn’t choose. He couldn’t lose either of them.

They were both radiating fear, defiant but terrified. The air was thick with the scent of it. The sound of their racing pulses assaulted Derek’s ears. His instincts were screaming at him to protect his betas, but he was powerless. It was so intense it became a physical pain. Derek would gladly die for them at this point. He owed them far more than that. But Deucalion wasn’t even giving him that option.

He couldn’t think. He couldn’t move. He could barely breathe.

Then, just when Derek was sure he’d lose both of them because of his indecision, there was a blinding flash of light. Hunter arrows. Argents? It was impossible to tell and it didn’t really matter anyway. When his vision cleared, Derek saw Scott slam full force into Ennis, knocking him back far more effectively than Derek would’ve thought possible based on what he knew about Scott’s weight and strength.

And maybe it was just the light, maybe Derek’s eyes were playing tricks on him because of the flash, but he could’ve sworn…. He could’ve sworn that for a moment, the gold of Scott’s eyes bled into red.

Derek didn’t have time to think. He lunged toward Ennis, drawing him off Scott, calling on reserves of energy deep within himself. Derek was too focused on the need to eliminate the threat to his pack and his ally, so determined to press his advantage, that he lost track of his surroundings.

He was vaguely aware in the back of his mind that he’d made a miscalculation; that he’d leaped before he’d looked. His human side scolded his wolf side for the mistake. A stupid, inescapable mistake.

 _Fatal_ , Derek thought to himself as he lost his footing, Ennis’ hands still clutching his shirt. _A fatal mistake_.

The look of horror on Scott’s face as Derek stepped back into air was strangely touching. It was a nice feeling, warming his chest even as his stomach dropped, cold and unpleasantly light. Scott would miss Derek, at least. Scott would live, and he’d protect Derek’s pack.

Derek could feel the ground rushing toward him though he couldn’t see it.

A split second of sharp, unbearable pain. The cacophonous sound of his own bones breaking.

Then nothingness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray for updates posted after a relatively reasonable time period! Enjoying the angst? XD Thanks so much for all of the comments and kudos and support! You guys really motivate me :)
> 
> Timeline: This chapter takes place roughly during the second-ish part of 3A, episode 5.
> 
> Special thanks to my beta [Ismene_Jane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ismene_Jane), who kicked ass to get this beta'd while she was super busy, and [AradiaFirehawk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AradiaFirehawk).


	17. Uncertainty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: UNCERTAINTY

STILES

It was maybe eight o’clock when they were done with Round Two. Time didn’t matter much to Stiles; his dad probably wouldn’t be home until after midnight, and it was always Jackson who decided when they were done for the night.

Jackson hadn’t made that decision yet, apparently, because he hadn’t pulled away. He seemed a little hazier than at the end of Round One, lying still in the bed with Stiles’ arm draped over his waist for longer than usual. Eyes closed, silent, awake but unavailable. Stiles refrained from petting him in favor of watching him. Jackson was unnecessarily sexy even on his worst days (and he was very aware of it), but Stiles liked him best like this: hair all messed up, skin flushed, expression relaxed. Sated, relieved. Stiles was pretty sure that nobody else got to see Jackson like this.

Stiles caught himself smiling just before Jackson abruptly stiffened and sat up in bed, eyes fixing instantly on the window. Stiles held his breath and listened for what Jackson could already hear: someone was climbing up to his room.

“Who is it?” Stiles whispered, but Jackson had gotten up and was hastily pulling his boxer-briefs and jeans back on. Stiles managed to pull on a pair of boxers (which felt pretty gross after sex without showering, but it was better than facing potentially hostile home invaders in his birthday suit) and a T-shirt just before Scott climbed through his window, followed closely by Isaac.

Stiles opened his mouth to give Scott shit for barging in, but cut himself off when he saw that Scott and Isaac were both covered in dried blood and grime, expressions grim.

“What the hell happened?” demanded Stiles instead.

A thrill of fear gripped him. When werewolves looked that upset and beaten up, something was usually monumentally wrong. If the state of their clothes and the grave looks on their faces weren’t enough of an indication of how bad things were, the fact that Isaac didn’t so much as lift an eyebrow, let alone make a snarky comment, at the fact that both Jackson and Stiles were barely clothed and Stiles’ room reeked of sex gave it away.

When neither Scott nor Isaac answered him, Stiles’ fear intensified. “Scott?” Stiles took a step toward his best friend and searched his devastated face. “Is everyone--”

“Derek’s dead,” said Isaac quietly, his eyes fixed on the floor.

There was a moment of silence during which Stiles’ brain fired through so many thoughts at the same time he was pretty sure he stopped breathing while it happened.

“Wait, what?” Stiles stammered, completely incapable of processing Isaac’s two words in conjunction with each other. “How? I don’t--”

Scott’s jaw was set. He was staring at some point above Stiles’ shoulder in silence.

“We went to talk to Deucalion,” said Isaac.

“You _what_?” said Stiles, his voice sounding unnaturally loud to his ears. He stepped close enough to Scott to get a hand on his shoulder, shaking it to get Scott to look at him. “Snap out of it, Scotty, I need you to tell me everythi--”

“It was supposed to be just Deucalion and me,” said Scott, his voice shaking ever-so-slightly. “Isaac came with me. Then Derek and Boyd and Cora showed up, then the rest of the alphas…”

“It wasn’t even a fight,” said Isaac when Scott trailed off. “If it wasn’t for the hunters, we’d probably all be dead.”

“Hunters?” said Stiles, growing more confused and alarmed by the second. “The Argents?”

“Dunno,” said Isaac, shaking his head. “There were flash bolts. We ran as soon as we could get away.”

“But Derek--” said Stiles.

“He fell,” said Scott, his voice more even but unsettlingly detached now. “Him and Ennis.”

“ _Fell_?” said Stiles, unwilling to believe that something as mundane as falling could kill an alpha werewolf. Especially Derek Hale, who was so determined to live he’d nearly made Stiles cut his friggin’ arm off with an electric saw. “They’re werewolves. Falling shouldn’t--”

“It was high enough,” said Isaac, with haunting certainty. “If he made it out--”

“--he would’ve at least called by now,” finished Jackson from behind Stiles. The first words he’d spoken since Scott and Isaac had shown up.

Isaac nodded soberly in agreement. Stiles turned to Jackson, who was standing near the foot of Stiles’ bed, face blank.

Fuck. Stiles knew that expression. It was how Jackson looked when he was in pain but refused to let anyone see it. The force field he let down when he was with Stiles was back up and at full strength. He was in complete lockdown mode.

Stiles reached out to grip Jackson’s shoulder, but Jackson shifted away, shutting Stiles out. Stiles wasn’t surprised, but it still hurt. Maybe it wouldn’t have stung, maybe Stiles wouldn’t have taken it personally, except that when Isaac stepped closer to Jackson, Jackson didn’t move away, and when Isaac’s hand touched Jackson’s shoulder, Jackson reached up to cover Isaac’s wrist with his hand. The contact was very brief; after a second, Jackson pulled Isaac’s hand off him and let it go, playing it off like he didn’t want the comfort. But it was clear to Stiles that he did.

Despite everything Derek had done to hurt Jackson and to push him away, despite Stiles’ unofficial status as an alpha to Jackson, at the end of the day, Stiles wasn’t Jackson’s pack. He wasn’t a werewolf, he wasn’t a real alpha, and he didn’t have the connection to Jackson that Isaac or Boyd--who Jackson didn’t even like--did.

Maybe Derek had been wrong. Maybe Stiles wasn’t who Jackson needed, after all.

“You okay, Stiles?” said Scott tentatively. Which was a ridiculous amazingly Scott-like thing to say, because out everyone in his room, Stiles was the one who had the least right to be upset about Derek’s death.

“Huh?” Stiles turned back to him. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. What about you?”

“Where’s Cora?” said Jackson suddenly. Cora. Of course. Another person Jackson had more of a connection with than Stiles…

“I don’t know,” said Scott. “She and Boyd got out but we split up in case any of the alphas tried to follow us.”

“Deucalion tried to get Derek to kill one of them, but he wouldn’t choose,” said Isaac.

Holy _shit_. That was a fucked up mind game even for a homicidal alpha-of-alphas werewolf.

“Boyd called and said they’re okay, though,” said Scott, hastily reassuring Jackson. “He’s at home, but I’m not sure if Cora’s still with him.”

“I think I know,” muttered Jackson.

“Where?” said Scott, but Jackson ignored him. He’d grabbed the rest of his clothes and was out the window before anyone could demand an explanation from him.

The atmosphere in the room after he left was awkward to say the least: a strange mix of grief and embarrassment as it became clear that Scott and Isaac were finally realizing what Jackson and Stiles had been doing before they’d arrived. Stiles took a few steps back from them, uncomfortably aware of what he must smell like right now.

“I… I should go check on Boyd,” said Isaac, breaking the silence. “I’ll, uh, see you guys later.”

He made it sound so casual. Like things weren’t extremely and irrevocably fucked up beyond even a miniscule, infinitesimal possibility of ever even _beginning_ to fix them. Maybe compartmentalizing was something a kid with that much violence in his life had to learn how to do, but Stiles found it unnerving.

“Yeah,” said Scott. He turned toward the window like he was considering following Isaac, but Stiles stopped him.

“You could stay,” Stiles said to Scott, “If you want.”

Scott frowned. “Stiles…”

“Come on, Scotty, just…” Stiles sighed, because there weren’t words to explain how he knew that Scott needed to be with him right now. He just knew. “Just stay.”

Scott hesitated, but nodded. He looked to Isaac and said, “See you tomorrow.”

Isaac nodded to him, and left.

So Stiles was left with his grieving best friend in a bedroom that reeked of hot guy-on-guy, human-on-werewolf action. Awkward.

“I’m gonna… Uhhh, hang on a sec.” Stiles hastily stripped the sheets from the bed and took them down to the washing machine, knowing Scott would still be aware of the scent even if they were in Stiles’ hamper. He found clean ones and made the bed while Scott sat in his computer chair, politely pretending that this was perfectly normal.

“Be right back,” said Stiles. He took clean clothes—pajama pants and a T-shirt—to the bathroom and showered as quickly as he could, then went back to his room. He rummaged through his drawers to find some clothes Scott could sleep in.

“Here,” he said, handing a shirt and pajama pants to Scott. “Get cleaned up. You look like you’ve been spelunking.”

The corner of Scott’s mouth quirked up at Stiles’ comment, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. He thanked Stiles for the clothes and went to take a shower. While he was getting dressed, Stiles gathered up all of the dirty clothes and threw them in the wash with the sheets. Scott couldn’t go home the next day looking like he had literally been beaten half to death.

When Stiles, Scott, and the bedroom were as clean as they were going to get for the moment, Stiles sat down on the edge of the bed, facing Scott. He had no idea what to say. There was nothing _to_ say. There weren’t words for what Scott must be feeling. Hell, there weren’t words for what _Stiles_ was feeling.

Derek was dead. It seemed impossible. People like Derek didn’t die. They stayed alive out of pure spite and stubbornness. And they definitely didn’t survive fires and electrocutions and poisonings and impalings just to fall down a fucking _hole_. They didn’t make Stiles nearly cut their arms off so they wouldn’t get poisoned to death, or hold their heads above water so they wouldn’t drown when they were paralyzed.

They didn’t rush off on suicide missions without telling their friends. They didn’t let their last words to Stiles be a request to take care of Jackson and, ‘You’re the one who figures things out.’ They didn’t get to be so fucking sincere for the first time and have it be the last time.

People like Derek didn’t make Stiles feel like this.

“Stiles?” Scott’s voice interrupted Stiles’ thought spiral. Great, Stiles must’ve let his pulse speed up by upsetting himself.

“Yeah?” Stiles wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand as covertly as he could.

“Thanks.”

The sentiment was so ludicrous that Stiles nearly laughed. What the hell had Stiles done that deserved thanks? Fucked Jackson while Scott and Derek and the others were risking their lives? For all Stiles knew, Derek could’ve been dying while Stiles was having sex. How fucked up was that? How was Stiles supposed to respond to Scott _thanking_ him for that?

“Hungry?” he asked instead.

Scott blinked at him, surprised. “Uh… I guess. Actually, yeah.”

“I’ll order pizza,” said Stiles. His own stomach rumbled, as if on cue. Apparently even grief could only do so much to stave off a teenage boy’s appetite.

He ordered their late post-sex/post-fatal battle dinner online and they went downstairs to watch TV while they waited for, then ate it. A stupid sitcom, some cartoons. Because life really did go on. Stiles had learned that lesson when his mom had died. There had always been soap operas on TV in her hospital room when he’d visited, and daytime talk shows, and local news. And those stupid shows had gone on the next day, when she hadn’t. They were still on, years later, and she wasn’t. Like an amazing prime-time show with shitty ratings. She was the fucking Firefly of people.

Stiles sucked at poetic metaphors. Sorry, Mom.

A guy on the TV was dealing with a humorously awkward situation at work. Boo-hoo. How fucking _tragic_. The more Stiles watched, the angrier he got. It was a familiar anger. He remembered being so young and so furious at the injustice of losing her. _Losing_ her. Ha. No, she hadn’t been _lost_ , she’d been _taken_. She’d been _stolen_ from him, some stupid biological fuckup eating away at her brain, destroying her from the inside out. It had been brutal and ugly and painful and the mother he’d known had been gone long before her body was dea—

“Stiles!” shouted Scott, shaking his shoulders roughly.

It was only then that Stiles realized that his pulse was racing, that his chest felt painfully tight, that he was dizzy.

He was panicking.

“Stiles!” repeated Scott. “Come on, man, you know how to deal with this. Breathe!”

Breathe. Breathe, Stiles, _breathe_. Slow and even. It’s just a burst of adrenaline. An instinctual response. It’s not going to hurt you. Relax your muscles. Inhale through your nose, exhale through your mouth. You’re okay. Relax. Everything’s going to be fine.

Stiles opened his eyes. He hadn’t even realized he’d closed them. His heart was still rabbiting, but logically he knew it would pass. Adrenaline surges dropped off after about three minutes. He’d been through this before. No big deal, in the grand scheme of things.

“Holy shit,” said Scott. “I never knew how a panic attack _sounded_.”

“Yeah, well, you can imagine how it feels, then,” said Stiles with a weak smile. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” said Scott. He turned off the TV and waited patiently for the couple more minutes it took Stiles’ pulse to calm.

Stiles didn’t have it in him to talk anymore, and thanked a list of deities that might or might not exist that Scott understood that. Scott followed him back upstairs in silence, got the extra blankets and pillow that had been designated as “his” since they were kids from the hallway closet, and made himself a makeshift sleeping bag on the floor next to Stiles’ bed.

Stiles drifted in and out of a restless sleep filled with strange nightmares about werewolves and his mother. Every time he woke up he noticed that his guard dog/best friend wasn’t snoring.

* * *

JACKSON

Jackson felt an overwhelming rush of relief at finding Cora in his room when he got home. She was sitting on his bed, knees pulled up to her chin, arms hugging her shins. When she looked up and met his eyes, all of the resentment Jackson had been feeling for her because she had sided with Derek vanished instantly.

He rushed over to his bed and pulled his packmate into his arms. Jackson’s throat tightened as he buried his face in her hair and inhaled her familiar scent: It was nearly overwhelmed by the scents of blood and pain, but it was still unmistakably _Cora_. Feeling the fear and the grief radiating from her, Jackson was struck by a palpable wave of guilt.

“I should’ve been there,” he said, and repeated it even as she shook her head. “I ignored my phone. I should’ve--”

“No,” said Cora evenly. “You could’ve died, too.”

“But--”

“Just let me be fucking grateful you’re alive, okay?” snapped Cora, eyes shining with unshed tears.

“I--” Jackson started, not even sure what he was going to say.

“Kali almost killed me,” said Cora, voice evening out, though a little shaky. “That stupid barefoot bitch nearly crushed my neck. And my last thought before the flash arrows hit was, ‘Thank God Jackson’s not here.’”

Jackson’s mouth went dry. Something in his chest ached, and words wouldn’t come. He’d known Cora cared for him, known it in an abstract way. But he hadn’t thought he mattered so much to her that she’d think of him when she was about to _die_. Jackson hadn’t thought he mattered that much to anyone.

“So don’t you _dare_ feel guilty,” Cora said fiercely. “If you so much as _think_ about apologizing, I’ll kill you myself.”

Jackson stared at her for a moment before softly agreeing, “Okay.”

He pulled back to look at her and realized that she, like Scott and Isaac, was covered in dried blood and dirt. Then he remembered his own state of uncleanliness and felt embarrassed. Neither of them should sleep like this.

“Come on,” he said to Cora gently as he got up from the bed and tugged her with him to the bathroom.

Jackson turned on the shower for her and looked away while she undressed and climbed in. After she just stood under the water for a minute without moving, however, it became clear that she too exhausted and stunned to be able to do this on her own. Seeing no other option, Jackson stripped down to just his boxer-briefs and climbed into the shower with Cora.

“Holy shit,” he breathed as his eyes scanned over the cuts and bruises marring her torso and arms. He barely registered that she was naked. All thoughts of modesty or awkwardness or any sex-related considerations had been suffocated by grief and worry and the fact that his packmate was injured and needed him.

“I’m fine,” said Cora, voice soft and detached. “Alpha wounds heal slower.”

Jackson frowned at a particularly nasty-looking gash that cut across Cora’s collarbone, but there was nothing he could do to help her heal except make sure she was clean and got some sleep. Carefully, Jackson cut the band tying Cora’s long hair with his claw and worked shampoo through the strands, dispersing the mats of blood and grime. This seemed to stir Cora out of her stupor a bit, because she was able to soap up and carefully scrub her skin while Jackson finished her hair.

Once Cora was clean, she stayed in the shower but turned away so Jackson would have some privacy. Jackson stripped off his underwear and quickly washed up, feeling a twinge of guilt from the difference in how each of them had gotten so dirty. Jackson had been having sex while his packmates had been fighting for their lives…

Cora gave a little warning growl, like she knew what he was thinking. Right, he wasn’t supposed to feel guilty. Jackson turned the water off and stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist and then holding one out to Cora. She let Jackson wrap her in it and lead her back into his bedroom. He found a clean pair of boxers and a T-shirt for her to wear, and pulled some on himself as well.

When they were both settled in his bed, Jackson didn’t hesitate before pulling Cora into his arms and curling himself around her protectively. Usually she was the one who comforted him, but now her pain was much greater than his. Jackson had lost an estranged alpha. Cora had lost her alpha and her brother, her only remaining family member (apart from her psychotic uncle).

“The world doesn’t want Hales in it,” Cora murmured, voice eerily even. “Hunters, other wolves, monsters. They won’t stop till we’re all dead.”

Jackson didn’t know what to say to that, so he just hugged Cora closer to his body.

“At least you weren’t there,” she said softly, her words slowing as she gave in to exhaustion. “At least I knew they couldn’t get all of us as long as you were safe.”

The thought that Jackson had come that close to being the last surviving member of the Hale pack made him shiver in fear. He held onto his packmate--because even if they’d lost their alpha, they were still pack--like she’d be dragged away from him if his grip loosened. Sleep took her immediately. It was a long time before Jackson found it himself.

* * *

DEREK

 _Hide and heal_.

That’s what Derek and his family had been taught to do when they were injured and away from their pack, from the moment they could walk. Don’t try to fight. Don’t try to get home unless it’s nearby. Find the safest place you can, and hide. Hide and heal. Then come home when you can, or wait for the pack to find you if you have to.

They’d never been told that they might have to hide from other werewolves, though. Packs could get territorial sometimes, but Derek had never heard of wolves actively killing each other before (especially not their own pack members). Werewolves’ lives were dangerous enough already thanks to hunters.

Derek couldn’t go home; the alphas knew where he lived. He couldn’t go to his pack; he’d already put his betas in enough danger, and he was in no state to protect them if the alpha pack went after them. He wasn’t sure he could heal from such severe wounds on his own, though. He might find a place to hide, black out, and die there. He needed help. He needed to stay with someone the alphas didn’t know. He needed to be somewhere they’d never look, at least until he was fully healed.

There was only one option. He really, _really_ didn’t want to take it, but there was no other choice. Pure adrenaline got him to the high school, and instinct helped him find her scent. Derek faintly registered the spike in Jennifer’s pulse and her little scream as he likely scared the hell out of her by slamming his bloody hand against the door like that. It got her attention, though.

And then he was on the ground, and she was hovering over him, but he couldn’t move, and then he couldn’t stay awake, and he’d just have to trust her.

 _Trust her._ Derek had never really let himself trust anyone since Kate. He’d learned his lesson. And if he was going to trust anyone, it shouldn’t be another _woman_ , another _human_ , one he barely knew and who barely knew him. But her hands were soft on his pain-wracked skin, the concern in her voice was genuine. So he decided to trust her. And it was strange, and dangerous, and terrifying, and a very, very bad idea.

But in any case, he reasoned with himself just before his consciousness winked out, if he did die, wouldn’t it at least be better to do it at the hands of someone so beautiful and warm than by bleeding out alone in a ditch?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Divided Loyalties_ drinking game: Take a drink every time I end a section with someone falling asleep or unconscious XD Sorry it's not a particularly long chapter, but it's a logical breaking off point for what's coming up next.
> 
> Thank you all for reading and commenting and being patient with me! I'm in the middle of a pretty epic move across the Atlantic Ocean, and there is a lot of planning and other busy stuff involved that encroaches on writing time, plus my beta is going through a similar situation. So the next chapter may be delayed (even more than usual). I promise I'll get it posted as soon as I can, though! I'll be skipping most of Motel California for the sake of the fic's plot, so we can move on to some other exciting things I've got lined up :D
> 
> Timeline: This chapter takes place roughly during the end bit of 3A, episode 5, though things are switched around a bit.
> 
> Special thanks to my beta [Ismene_Jane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ismene_Jane), who kicked ass to get this beta'd while she was super busy and I may or may not have made her cry (mega hearts, babe), and [AradiaFirehawk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AradiaFirehawk).


	18. Identity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: IDENTITY

STILES

The realization Stiles came to in his half-asleep state the next morning struck him so hard that he shot up in bed.

“Scott!”

“What?” said Scott, sounding very awake and slightly alarmed. In the back of his head, Stiles wondered if Scott had slept at all that night, or just done guard duty while Stiles slept.

“Who’s the new alpha?” Stiles said to Scott as Scott stood up from the floor and moved to Stiles’ desk chair.

“What alpha?” said Scott. “There are kind of a lot of alphas around right now.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “If Derek’s really dead, then there should be a new alpha in the Hale pack.”

Scott frowned, considering this. “Cora, maybe?”

“You were with her last night. Did her eyes change?”

“I don’t know,” said Scott. “Like Isaac said before, we all scattered after the flash arrows went off. She was with Boyd, and she’s probably with Jackson now.”

“Shit, we need to get to school,” said Stiles when he saw his alarm clock. “Fuck, okay, uh, Jackson, Boyd, and Isaac should be at school, right? We can ask them there.”

“I hope so,” said Scott, sounding doubtful. “Guess we’ll find out.”

It turned out that Boyd and Isaac _were_ at school that day, but not Jackson. Boyd said that Jackson and Cora were going to look for Derek. Neither he nor Isaac seemed hopeful that Derek was still alive, even when Stiles explained about how there should be a new Hale alpha if Derek had really died.

“Even if he was still alive,” said Isaac, “what are we supposed to do about it? I mean, if Cora can’t find him, who could?”

While Stiles and Scott were considering the matter, Lydia and Allison walked by in the hall on their way to class.

Stiles’ eyes widened. “Hey, Lydia! Wait up!”

Like Fate had become involved, three of them--Scott, Stiles, and Lydia--had the same free period after lunch that day. Lydia was not happy about them taking up time she had hoped to spend studying, but in the end she relented and let them drag her into an abandoned classroom.

“All right,” said Lydia. “What’s so important that it can’t wait until after school?”

“We need you to find Derek,” said Scott without preamble.

Lydia crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t find missing people. I find dead people.”

“What about missing and _presumed_ dead?” said Stiles.

“Derek’s _dead_?” said Lydia, concern plain in her tone.

“Not yet," said Scott. "At least, we don’t think so.”

“Is somebody going to explain to me how this happened?”

“Scott and Isaac went to meet with Deucalion but Derek and Boyd and Cora came, too, and then it turned out that Deucalion had brought the whole alpha pack and apparently all of the good guys almost died except there were flash arrows and Derek and Ennis fell down a hole,” said Stiles in a rush, finishing with a muttered, "apparently."

“A hole,” repeated Lydia, eyeing Stiles skeptically.

Stiles made an exasperated sound. “That’s seriously the part of this you’re focusing on?”

“Where was Jackson?” said Lydia.

“What?” Stiles blinked at her. His stomach did a distracting little nervous swoopy thing at the mention of that name.

“You said Derek, Isaac, Boyd, and Cora," said Lydia, a very slight note of concern in her voice. "Where was Jackson? He’s in Derek’s pack, too, and he’s not in school today. Is he okay?”

“I…” stammered Stiles. The swoopy feeling intensified. "He's with Cora."

"I didn't ask where he is. I asked where he was last night."

Scott shifted awkwardly, but said nothing. Clearly Stiles was on his own here.

“He didn’t go with Derek's pack," said Stiles. "He was with me.”

Lydia blinked at him. “What, like on guard duty, so you wouldn’t follow them?”

Stiles was so tempted to say yes, because that actually would’ve made a lot of sense. It would be an easy way out. But then, she’d find out eventually. She was Lydia Martin. And it would be harder later if he lied to her now.

“No…” Stiles stared down at his own hands, which were fidgeting. He couldn't bear to look at her. “Like, _with me_ , with me.”

“Together,” said Scott with a significant look. Because he was _such_ a helpful friend.

Lydia looked like she might laugh, but faced with the expressions Stiles and Scott were wearing, it was cut off. She stared at Stiles in disbelief for just a second before she recovered.

“Is that the best lie you could come up with?” said Lydia, like the whole thing was ridiculous. And Stiles had to give her that: it was absolutely ridiculous. But Lydia was smart, and perceptive, and Stiles was sure that she didn’t need to be a werewolf to tell whether he was lying.

“It’s true,” said Stiles tentatively, braving a short glance at Lydia's face. “Trust me, I don’t really believe it myself, most of the time.”

Lydia looked back and forth between Stiles and Scott before her eyes rested on Stiles. "Seriously?"

Stiles wasn't sure he'd ever seen Lydia stunned before. She was always so self-assured, unfazed. But then, Stiles imagined that the revelation that your ex-boyfriend (who everyone assumed only liked girls) was sleeping with the guy who had just professed his undying love for you a few months ago was probably enough to unnerve most people.

"Seriously," said Stiles. He pulled the collar of his shirt away from his neck, revealing a few impressive bruises made by Jackson’s teeth along his clavicle.

Lydia gaped at them.

 _Please don’t hate me_ , Stiles thought desperately in Lydia’s direction. He didn’t think he could bear it if Lydia hated him. Fucking Jackson was amazing, but it would be excruciating to lose Lydia after she had finally maybe almost at least become something resembling friends.

There was a long, silent pause during which Stiles held his breath.

“Honestly, Stiles…” Lydia's lips turned up ever-so-slightly. “I think you could do better.”

Stiles’ unsureness made his answering smile almost as slight. “Thanks, Lydia.”

Before things got more awkward, Lydia continued the conversation like there hadn't been any mind-blowing revelations, like, thirty seconds earlier.

“How exactly am I supposed to find Derek?" she said. “I don’t even know how I find bodies.”

They spent forty-five minutes with a Ouija board, crystals, hypnotic techniques, and everything else Stiles could think of that might tap into whatever unseen connection Lydia had to death and destruction. But nothing had any effect.

“I’m sorry,” said Lydia after they’d exhausted their options. And she really did look sorry about it. “Honestly, though… I hope I don’t find him.”

Stiles nodded grimly. Maybe she had a point. If Lydia only found dead people, maybe it would actually be a good thing if she couldn’t find Derek.

The only thing left for Stiles to do until school was over (except, you know, paying attention in class) was worry. He chewed on his pens as he worried about Derek, worried about everyone being in mortal peril, worried--in spite of a fierce determination not to--about Jackson. Which was dumb, because there was even less that Stiles could do for Jackson than he could do for Derek. Jackson didn’t need Stiles. He had Cora and the rest of the Hale pack. Stiles was the last person he needed right now.

And yet…

Stiles picked up his phone and typed out a text to Jackson composed of two feeble, useless words:

Stiles: You okay?

* * *

JACKSON

Jackson impressed himself by being able to pretend he was sick enough to convince his parents he needed to stay home, especially since he was a werewolf and could no longer get sick (unless wolfsbane or supernatural forces were involved). Cora had stealthily hidden in his closet until his parents had left, then they had waited around for an hour just to be sure, before going out to search for Derek--or what was left of him.                                                                                                                     

Despite the somber tone of the day, Jackson found himself smiling as they walked out to his car. Cora was dressed in Jackson’s clothes, which meant she looked even more like a tomboy than usual. Jackson had been able to find one of Lydia’s hair ties lying around from months ago, but the only clothes that fit Cora were one of Jackson’s smaller T-shirts and his skinniest pair of jeans, slung low on her hips and rolled up at the bottoms. She had also insisted on pulling on one of his hoodies over all of it because that somehow made it look _less_ ridiculous. Never mind that she was barefoot, to boot. First stop: the loft. Even if Derek wasn’t there, at least Cora’s clothes would be.

“What?” she said after they were in the car, because the smile wouldn’t go completely away.

“Nothing,” he said.

“Tell me,” she insisted, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“Okay,” he said. “I can’t decide if you look like you’re homeless, having a walk of shame, or trying to pick up chicks.”

Cora made a mock-offended sound and smacked Jackson on the shoulder, but there was a hint of a smile on her lips. It felt good to see her smile, if only a little, and briefly.

“I wouldn’t need to dress like a twelve-year-old boy from the Nineties to _pick up chicks_ if I wanted to,” she said loftily.

“Speaking from experience?” teased Jackson.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she said, arching an eyebrow in a very Derek-like way.

Jackson laughed in his throat, but as soon as he turned his eyes back on the road they settled into a subdued silence again.

When they got to the loft, there was no sign of Derek, though Jackson could pick up his lingering scent in the room and it made his chest tighten. Cora changed her clothes without saying a word, and they headed to the abandoned mall where the Hale pack had ‘fought’ (read: nearly been slaughtered by) the alpha pack.

There was no sign of Derek. Well, there was one sign: blood on the escalator where he’d fallen. Both of them could see and smell it, and it was definitely Derek’s. But he wasn’t there. Neither was Ennis.

“He’s not here,” said Jackson, stating the obvious because he wasn’t sure he should let himself hope that this was good news.

“Yeah,” said Cora. “I could try…”

She inhaled deeply, eyes glowing gold as she shifted very slightly into her werewolf form to get a better lock on Derek’s scent. At the sight of her eyes, something clicked in Jackson’s head.

“You’re not an alpha.”

“What?” said Cora, her eyes shifting back to brown as she stared at him blankly. “Of course I’m not. Why would I be?”

“Someone has to be, right?” said Jackson. “If Derek’s really dead, someone else in the pack would become the alpha.”

A look of understanding dawned on Cora’s features. “Show me your eyes.”

Jackson did, though he was completely confident that he was _not_ an alpha, and never would be.

“Blue,” she confirmed. “But that doesn’t make sense. If an alpha dies, their power should go to the next oldest family member, or sometimes the first bitten beta. That’s me and you.”

“What about Peter?” said Jackson. Technically, Peter was the oldest Hale.

Cora shook her head. “Peter already died, plus Derek got his power by killing him. I don’t think it would revert…”

“So unless Isaac or Boyd somehow--”

“--then Derek might still be alive,” Cora finished for him, giving Jackson a very cautiously hopeful smile.

“What do we do now?” said Jackson.

Cora’s eyes turned gold again and her features took on a slight general wolfishness that wasn’t a full transformation. “Follow my nose.”

Unfortunately, this didn’t turn out to be as easy as she’d made it sound. Derek was pretty good at covering his tracks when he needed to, and apparently he thought he’d needed to do that to get away from the alpha pack. He’d crossed over water several times, backtracked, left false trails, and used other kinds of tricks to lose any pursuers. Eventually, they worked against even Cora’s particularly keen sense of smell, and after a little over an hour, the trail went completely cold.

Cora growled in frustration and punched the closest tree, sending an ominous crack halfway up its trunk and scaring a small flock of birds from its branches.

“Damn it, Derek!”

“Maybe he’s hiding somewhere. Licking his wounds or something,” said Jackson, trying to be optimistic, which was very difficult for him.

“That’s _exactly_ what he’s doing,” said Cora bitterly. “That’s what we’re taught to do. ‘Hide and heal.’ Which means the stubborn, self-sacrificing _jerk_ isn’t going to come to us for help, even if he can’t heal on his own. You’re supposed to hide and wait for the pack to find you. But he made that impossible on purpose.”

“So…” said Jackson tentatively.

“So now the only thing we can do is hope he can heal on his own. And wait.”

Cora slumped to the ground against the thick trunk of the tree she’d damaged. Jackson went to sit next to her, letting his head fall back against the bark and sighing deeply. He sucked at waiting. It made him feel helpless. Helplessness was one of the worst feelings in the world to Jackson.

After they’d sat together in silence for a few minutes, Cora started to fidget, picking at the grass in an uncharacteristically Stiles-like manner. Jackson was just about to ask her what she was thinking, when she turned to him suddenly.

“Are you adopted?” she asked, her fingers stilling in the grass.

Jackson blinked at her in surprise, blindsided by what felt like a complete non-sequitur.

“Well… yeah,” he said, trying to shrug like it didn’t matter. “Figured someone would’ve told you already. Why?”

Cora stared off into the distance, avoiding Jackson’s eyes. “Do you know who your birth parents were?”

Jackson hesitated. This wasn’t something he liked talking about. In fact, he generally avoided the topic at all costs. But this was Cora…

“Not really. They died in a car crash.” Jackson sighed. “My mom was pregnant. I made it, she didn’t.”

“Jackson…” Cora closed her mouth, opened it, and closed it again without speaking. Her pulse had sped up very slightly.

“What?” said Jackson warily.

“I… I might know something,” she said. “About your parents.”

The words were like a punch to Jackson’s gut. How the hell would Cora know anything about his birth parents? His (adopted) parents didn’t even know that much about them. No one in town seemed to have known them. They had probably been from out of town, just unlucky enough to die in Beacon Hills, like so many other people had.

“What?” repeated Jackson.

Cora finally looked over at him. She hesitated for another moment before finally saying, “I don’t know if the car crash really happened. I mean, maybe it did, but… If it did, I don’t think the man who died was your father.”

Jackson stared at her, brain stuttering over her words. “What are you saying?”

“I think I know who your real birth father is.”

Her tone had shifted to the kind of slow, soft voice you were supposed to use when confronting a wild animal. Like she expected him to attack or bolt. Which wasn’t far from the truth. Jackson couldn’t decide if he was anxious to hear the truth or angry with her for not telling him this sooner.

“How?” he said, because words weren’t coming easily. “Who?”

She gave him a helpless, pitying look. Like she either didn’t want to tell him, or thought he should be able to figure it out. Either way, it looked like he wasn’t going to like the answer. But how could she possibly know? Why would she be in a position to know something like that when nobody else seemed to?

The truth hit Jackson like a brick to the head and sent his mind reeling. He was pretty sure that if he hadn’t been sitting, he would’ve fallen down.

 _The world doesn’t want Hales in it_ , Cora had said after the fight. _At least you weren’t there. At least I knew they couldn’t get all of us as long as you were safe._

She hadn’t just meant that Jackson was in the Hale pack. She’d meant that he _was_ a Hale. By birth.

But no. No, that didn’t make any sense.

“I wasn’t born a werewolf, Cora,” he protested. “You know that.”

“It only takes one human parent for a pup to be born human,” said Cora. “Sometimes even just a human grandparent. There were humans in our pack, before the fire. Almost all big packs have humans in them.”

“Really?” he said, curiosity temporarily distracting him from the life-altering revelation.

“Well, yeah. Breeding across packs is pretty rare, and giving people the Bite is dangerous.”

“So what, there’s like a werewolf gene or some shit?” asked Jackson, incredulous.

“Kind of,” said Cora. “Pups with two werewolf parents are almost always werewolves. Pups of humans and werewolves have about a fifty-fifty chance of being born wolves, unless one parent is an alpha. Alphas’ pups are always wolves.”

“Hang on,” said Jackson. “If it only takes one human parent, how do you know my _mother_ wasn’t a Hale?”

Cora shifted awkwardly and picked at some grass near her feet. “Because there were only two living Hale wolves the right age to be your parent, and one of them was my mother. Someone would’ve noticed if she’d been pregnant right after I was born.”

“You…” Jackson’s brain worked furiously toward a conclusion he didn’t want to reach. But it was inevitable. The answer dropped from his lips without him being conscious of it: “Peter.”

Cora nodded. “I would’ve told you sooner, but… I don’t know. It never seemed like a good time to bring it up.”

“How can you know for sure?” said Jackson, holding on to a flicker of hope that it wasn’t true.

“Jackson…” Cora said gently. “I know you want me to be wrong. But it’s in your scent. You don’t just smell like pack. You smell like _blood_.”

Jackson couldn’t respond. There were no words for what he was feeling. His father was alive. And he was a psychotic, murdering douchebag.

“Look,” said Cora. “I will never tell you that I understand how you feel. People always say that shit and they’re always wrong.” She put her hand on Jackson’s knee and tried to get him to meet her eyes. “But you’re my cousin by blood and my brother by pack, so I want you to know that you have a family. Even if we never tell anyone else. I’m your family. Okay?”

He wanted so badly to let her comfort him. But it was too much. Too big, too painful, too implausible but too believable at the same time.

So he ran. He shook her hand off and ran without knowing where he was going. He had a vague awareness that his vision had shifted, that his teeth were sharper, his hearing better. The wolf was taking over and he let it; didn’t even try to find his anchor. He let instinct win and he followed it, tearing through the woods as fast as his legs would carry him, launching himself over fallen trees and boulders with his arms when they got in his way. It wasn’t until he was standing at the foot of the front steps, nearly overwhelmed by the scent of years-old ash and rotting wood, that he realized he was at the Hale house.

He stood still before the house for a moment, listening carefully to make sure Cora hadn’t followed him. He didn’t want to talk to her right now. He didn’t want to talk to anyone.

Jackson’s phone chimed, as if on cue. His wolfish features receded as he looked down at his pocket, considering whether to check the message. It was probably just Cora wanting to know where he’d gone. Still, he felt compelled to check anyway.

It wasn’t Cora.

Stiles: You okay?

Like he knew something was upsetting Jackson. Even though he couldn’t possibly know. He was just checking on Jackson because they hadn’t seen each other since Scott and Isaac had told them that Derek was dead. Jackson had the strange urge to laugh. This morning, the idea that Derek might be dead was confusing and upsetting enough. Now… now, that seemed somehow much less important than Jackson’s identity crisis, which was kind of fucked up. But then, Jackson had always been selfish and self-centered. Why should that stop just because his alpha—maybe his cousin—might be dead?

Jackson was _not_ okay. He stared blankly at his phone as it chimed again.

Stiles: You okay?

Stiles: Jackson?

If he’d been a better person, he would’ve answered. All he’d need to say was, ‘Yeah.’ But lying would be pointless. Stiles was too smart. He’d worry no matter what. _So let him worry,_ Jackson thought. It was nice, in a way, to be worried about. There was a fine line, though, between worry and pity. And Jackson didn’t want pity. If Stiles knew the truth about what Cora had just told him, he’d feel sorry for Jackson.

Jackson decided not to respond.

But it was a good five minutes before he put his phone back in his pocket. He just stood there in front of the Hale house, imagining those two words, _You okay?_ , spoken by Stiles in that voice that Jackson never would’ve imagined could be so soothing to him since it used to _grate_. The solution to the pain and confusion and helplessness that Jackson was feeling was right in his hand. He could call Stiles. Stiles would probably even come pick him up, like some knight in a shitty decade-old powder-blue Jeep. They could go somewhere and Stiles could fuck him and make him not think anymore.

_You’re good, Jackson._

Soft voice, warm skin. Jackson’s refuge.

But he was too proud to go there this time.

Jackson stepped into the house, as he’d done only once before, back when all of this had started. When he’d demanded that Derek give him the Bite. Before the Kanima, before… well, _everything_. If Jackson had known then all the misery it would cause him, would he still have wanted it?

Since the minute he’d been told he was adopted, Jackson had been obsessed with his birth parents; wondering what his life would have been like if they’d lived, not entirely convinced that they were dead. It turned out he’d been half right. Unfortunately, this was a classic case of Be-Careful-What-You-Wish-For: Of _all_ the people Jackson knew in Beacon Hills who could potentially be his father, Peter Hale was one of the last people he would’ve hoped for. And the irony of it was that, indirectly, Peter was responsible for Jackson becoming a werewolf, because Peter had bitten Scott, and Jackson hadn’t been able to rest until he’d known what had made Scott faster, sharper, and stronger than Jackson had been.

Jackson’s father was alive. But he either hadn’t known about Jackson, or hadn’t wanted him. He’d also murdered probably dozens of people, and led to Jackson becoming a killer, too. So much pain, so much death. The Hales were the last family Jackson would’ve liked to belong to. _Jackson Hale_. No. No, he didn’t want that.

But then… _Cora_ was a Hale.

_I want you to know that you have a family. I’m your family._

He had a cousin. One who had been kind to him without pitying him, who had shown him that pack could be good, could make him feel wanted, like he belonged. Cora was his cousin. She was his family.

And Derek was, too. If he was still alive.

Jackson had cousins. He had a father (even if he was a sadistic douchebag). He used to have more cousins, uncles and aunts, maybe even siblings, before the fire. He’d had a mother. Maybe she was still alive… They’d lied about his father being dead. Who knew what had really happened to her?

But letting himself hope for that would be dangerous. Stupid.

Jackson had wanted Derek to make him a werewolf. It turned out that, in a way, Jackson had been born one. His body was human, maybe, but he’d been part of a pack since before he’d been born. He’d always been part of the Hale pack. It had just taken seventeen years and countless brutal murders to get him back to them…

Maybe having Cora--and hell, even Derek--as family was worth having Peter for a father.

Footsteps behind him. A familiar scent. A tense silence, then:

“Jackson Hale,” he said softly to Cora without turning around.

“Jackson Hale,” she agreed.

“Okay,” he said. He stood and turned toward her, taking her hand when she offered it to him. “Let’s go find our alpha.”

* * *

DEREK

Derek was positive that he wouldn’t be able to remember later even what neighborhood Jennifer lived in, let alone what her apartment looked like. All he was aware of was that there was a bed and that it was soft and that the sheets felt cool against the scratches in his back.

Jennifer’s heart was racing like a hummingbird. She was so afraid for him. Taking his shirt off to examine his wounds made it worse.

“Oh, my God,” she breathed when she saw his stomach. Which wasn’t exactly an encouraging sign.

“How bad?” Derek managed to say through clenched teeth and a haze of pain.

“To be honest,” she said with a small, worried smile, “the ‘Oh, my God’ would be for your unbelievable physique if it weren’t for the fact that you’re… bleeding _black blood_.”

Derek might’ve smiled if he could have remembered how to in that moment, but he was preoccupied with a fierce struggle to maintain consciousness for Jennifer’s sake. She was on the verge of tears, begging him to stay alive. Derek was mostly sure he’d be all right, but he didn’t know how to explain that to someone who was staring at gaping wounds in his flesh.

It stung when she pressed her ear to his heart to listen for his pulse, but hearing it seemed to reassure her. She let out a shaky, somewhat relieved sigh. The last words he heard before he slipped back into unconsciousness were, “Not exactly how I imagined our first date.”

Derek woke to the sudden, horrifying realization that his pack probably thought he was dead. He struggled to sit up, wincing as the movement jarred the deep slashes in his stomach and shoulder. Jennifer turned to him from where she was sitting in a nearby chair, chewing on her thumbnail anxiously.

“Are you sure you wanna do that?”

“I have to find the others,” said Derek between shaky breaths. “They think I’m dead.”

“Derek, you’re like one giant open wound,” she said, trying to smile. “I’m not entirely sure you aren’t really dead.”

Derek sighed in resignation (which hurt. Everything hurt.) and eased his weight back down onto the edge of the bed. She was right. He was in no state to do so much as walk across the room right now, let alone risk having to fight if the alphas found him. He could try calling, but then his pack would want to find him, and that would put them in danger. And wasn’t that the whole reason he hadn’t gone to them for help in the first place?

Jennifer frowned and knelt on the floor in front of him. Derek wasn’t quite sure how it happened, but one minute he was anxiously telling her that she shouldn’t be there, that he was dangerous, that she would get hurt, and the next minute…

He was completely frozen as she sat up on her knees, bringing her face close to his, as if in slow motion. He couldn’t move. Even when her lips finally pressed against his, he could barely respond. The kiss was soft, chaste, unsure. He flinched when she pulled away.

Derek was almost certain that he didn’t breathe during the pause after that first kiss, in which his mind was blissfully blank. And then it was like his body, still wracked with pain, moved on its own. He found himself leaning toward her, pressing his lips back to hers, a little more intently, a little surer, a little hungrier as the kiss went on. Soon she was climbing up onto the bed with him, and he couldn’t stop kissing her, couldn’t bear to not have her as close to him as possible.

He couldn’t remember ever being touched like this: passionately but gently, slowly, carefully. Kate had been rough and loud and exciting, which is what teenage boys were supposed to want. Derek _had_ wanted it, and he had enjoyed it. And before that, with Paige, it hadn’t gone nearly that far, and it had been gentle in an innocent, hesitant kind of way. Both were so different from this. It had been so long since he’d had this. Not just sex. Intimacy. Physical contact that wasn’t impersonal or violent. The closeness of another person, one who made him feel wanted and special and safe.

Jennifer touched him like he was something precious. Like he was fragile. And Derek did feel fragile, body and heart and soul. Everything still hurt so, _so_ much, and he was exhausted, and maybe it would be okay to just let Jennifer give this to him. Maybe, by some miracle, letting her see the old, internal wounds that had ached for so many years would bring him some comfort. Maybe, here with this remarkable, impossible woman, he could forget.

Under different circumstances he might’ve worried about the dozens of reasons that this was a bad idea, but seeing as how he had almost died and was still likely to be killed any day now, things had sort of been put into perspective.

Letting go of his thoughts and giving in to feeling was not unlike the peace and joy that could come with giving in to the wolf sometimes. Shutting his brain down made the rest of him wake up. Derek kissed Jennifer hungrily, reveling in her taste, her scent. The pain was still there, but he only registered it on the edges of his mind. He was safe with Jennifer.

The sounds she made as he rocked his hips into hers filled his ears, drowning out his awareness of everything but her. His name was on her lips when she came, breathy and soft and wonderful. She said it like she knew him. Like she loved him. Maybe she did. Wouldn’t that be something? He said her name, too.

 _Jennifer_.

 _Maybe_ , Derek thought as her eyes slid open and locked with his. Maybe Jennifer would be the one glimmer of light in all his darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PHEW! God, I can't believe how long of a hiatus I took there @_@ If you're still reading, bless you! Moving back to the States was kind of an insane process, then I had to get settled in, and it was all just kind of a massive time-consuming, creativity-killing clusterfuck. But I've finally updated, and it feels sooo good. There also shouldn't be a huge wait for the next chapter, since a lot of it has been written (or at least drafted) for a while now. Fingers crossed!
> 
> As you can see, I decided to make use of the Jackson-is-Peter's-son fan theory for the fic. I adore Malia, but I often wonder what would've happened with Jackson's back story if Colton hadn't left the show. I also want there to still be a strong connection between Jackson and the Hales, especially Cora, even if his pack status/loyalty is in question. And I moved Derek's and Jennifer's sexyscene from the loft to Jennifer's place because it makes no sense to me that Derek would be at the loft and yet no one could find him...
> 
> BTW, here's a great photoset (and some commentary) that covers the canonical underpinnings of the theory: <http://athenadark.tumblr.com/post/80810954918/sublimeglass-athenadark-jackson-whittemore>
> 
> Special thanks to my brilliant beta [Ismene_Jane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ismene_Jane), who also just went through the chaos of moving back to the States from abroad and is now moving across the country as well and yet still found time to edit this chapter. Love you!


	19. Casualty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER NINETEEN: CASUALTY

DEREK

When Derek finally healed enough to get back to the loft (with Jennifer’s help, though he wouldn’t let her come upstairs), only Cora was there. She looked relieved for all of three seconds before her eyes turned angry. Derek sighed. So much for a happy reunion...

“Cora--”

“Not one word, Derek,” she warned. “Not until the whole pack is here. You get to apologize to _all_ of us.”

Derek did as she said. He collapsed onto his bed and watched her text (presumably) Isaac, Boyd, and Jackson with worry. Then she blatantly ignored him for the fifteen minutes it took the others to get there. Boyd and Isaac looked genuinely happy and relieved to see him, while Jackson appeared stunned.

“All right,” said Derek, resigned to Cora’s impending onslaught. “Let’s hear it.”

"You stupid, selfish--" Cora shoved her hands against Derek’s chest, and Derek let himself be pushed backward to give her the satisfaction of it. He was very glad that his chest wounds had healed. “Where the _fuck_ were you?”

“With Jennifer,” said Derek, somewhat guiltily. “I didn’t have a lot of options.” He deliberately avoided eye contact with his sister, knowing she’d be pissed.

“Wait, you were with Miss Blake?” asked Boyd, eyes wide. “Why? Does she even know about werewolves?”

“Did you guys hook up?” asked Isaac, because he was Isaac.

Derek rolled his eyes in exasperation at Isaac and refused to answer. Isaac would know he was lying if he denied it.

“Oh man, you did!” said Isaac, grinning. “You totally had sex with our English teacher.”

Boyd made a face at that, but didn’t comment. Cora, however, wasn’t ready to let Derek off that easy.

“We thought you were dead,” she said, fury still plain in her eyes when he cautiously met them.

“Hide and heal,” said Derek. “I was doing what we’re _taught_ to do.”

“Bullshit,” snapped Cora. “You’re supposed to hide until your pack comes for you. You covered your tracks, even your scent, so we couldn’t find you.”

“We’re usually being hunted by humans, not other wolves,” said Derek. Their usual methods of hiding wouldn’t have worked on other wolves, who would’ve been able to follow him easily by scent if he wasn’t careful.

“You could’ve called! You could’ve texted! What, does that woman’s apartment not have cell service?”

Derek frowned. He really should have done a better job of at least letting the pack know he was alive. There was no denying that. Part of it had been that his phone had been smashed in the fall--he pulled it out and showed it to Cora--but he’d also wanted to forget about everything, to just hide for a while until he felt like he wasn’t half dead. He’d been selfish, and he knew it.

Cora snorted. “I am making you memorize my number. Tonight.”

Boyd took a step toward Derek and smiled his soft, closed-mouthed smile. “I’m glad you’re okay, Derek.”

“Me, too,” said Isaac, and he came close enough to put his hand on Derek’s shoulder. Derek nodded at Boyd and Isaac in turn, then covered Isaac’s hand with his own.

“I’m sorry,” he said to them, then spoke more loudly for Cora and Jackson. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

He didn’t say it out loud, but he desperately hoped they understood: _I was trying to keep you safe._

Finally, Cora gave in. She had to stand on her toes to throw her arms around Derek’s neck, but she managed it, hugging him tightly.

“If you _ever_ do anything like that again,” she said fiercely, “I will kill you myself.”

Derek smiled into his sister’s hair, then looked past her and the rest of the pack toward Jackson. Derek hadn’t expected a hug or anything from his most emotionally volatile beta, but Jackson looked cold, distant, even… lost? He looked away when Derek tried to catch his eyes.

Jackson got close enough to Derek to touch Cora’s shoulder, but seemed to be pretending that Derek wasn’t there.

“See you later,” he said to her, and she nodded. Without another word or backward glance, Jackson left.

* * *

JACKSON 

Jackson went to the hospital as soon as visiting hours started on the day after Danny had been poisoned. He neglected to mention to his parents that he had no intention of going to school after visiting Danny, but they probably knew. They also knew better than to try to stop him.

Danny looked so pale. A nurse--McCall's mother--had explained Danny's condition to Jackson, recounted what had happened to him, and given Jackson a significant look as she mentioned the mistletoe. It was only then that Jackson remembered that McCall's mother knew about werewolves. Hell, she knew about the Kanima; Jackson--Gerard, _using_ Jackson--had threatened her life to make McCall help him.

"He'll be fine," Mrs. McCall said reassuringly to Jackson, and smiled. "He just needs to rest for a while."

Why was she being so nice to Jackson when she knew what he'd done? She even reached out her hand as if she were going to pat him on the shoulder, but pulled it back when she saw the expression on his face.

"Stay as long as you want, Jackson," she said softly. "I'll be back later to check on him before my shift is over."

Jackson settled down in a chair next to Danny's bed. There were all kinds of monitors that displayed Danny's pulse, breathing, and other vital signs, but Jackson preferred to listen to them himself. As he watched Danny sleep, guilt began to take hold. Mistletoe. Not most people's first choice of poison. Whoever had done this knew about werewolves. Whoever had done this was involved with the alphas or the human sacrifices (or both).

But why Danny? Danny wasn't a werewolf. As far as Jackson knew, Danny didn't even know werewolves existed. Had whoever poisoned Danny done it to get at Jackson? It wasn't like Jackson was a particularly important werewolf in the Beacon Hills hierarchy. There were more useful targets, weren't there? Targets like Derek. That fucking _asshole_ who hadn’t seen fit to let his pack--including his sister--know that he was still alive when they’d been searching desperately for him. As horrible as it was that Danny was sick, at least it gave Jackson something else to think about, an excuse to avoid the rest of his pack. It would take a lot longer than two days for Jackson to forgive Derek for what he’d put them through.

Danny stirred and broke Jackson's reverie.

"Hey," said Jackson.

Danny turned his head slightly toward Jackson and blinked a few times, clearly struggling against a morphine-induced haze. "Jackson?"

"Yeah," said Jackson. "And you know I'm real because your brain wouldn't pick me for a drug hallucination."

That got a small, pained chuckle from Danny. "Not nearly hot enough."

Jackson couldn't help smiling briefly before he sobered again. "So what happened?"

"Poison?" said Danny. "Nurse said it was mistletoe, but dunno how I'd eat that and not notice."

"What were you doing when you got sick?" said Jackson.

"I was with Ethan," said Danny with a tired but unmistakably lewd smile. "Want details?"

Jackson had to hide the spike of alarm that hit him when Danny said that name. He tried to speak casually when he asked, "One of the twins? You didn't tell me you were…"

"You should take more interest in my sex life," said Danny. Jackson frowned at the criticism, but Danny waved him off. "No guilty face. You're a good friend."

Jackson snorted. "You have a weird idea of what a good friend is."

Danny shrugged as much as his weakened state allowed. "You're here when it counts. Exhibit A."

"I guess," said Jackson, shifting awkwardly in his chair. He didn't want to argue with a drugged-up Danny, but inwardly Jackson didn't consider a guy who let his best friend sleep with a murderous alpha werewolf and then get near-fatally poisoned (possibly because of said alpha werewolf) to be a particularly great friend.

"You should let me be there for you sometimes," said Danny. His tone conveyed that he knew something Jackson thought he was keeping secret, but Jackson played dumb.

"Like when?"

"Something's going on with you lately," said Danny. "And not just the whole 'coroner thought you were dead and then you moved to London' stuff."

"I don't--" Jackson protested, but Danny cut him off.

"It's not nice to lie to sick people."

The corner of Jackson's mouth quirked up at Danny's tired smile. Jackson rubbed at his own face wearily. "There's stuff you don't know. It could be... dangerous. If I told you."

"Dude, it's Beacon Hills," said Danny. "I know more than you think."

Jackson forced down the instinctive urge to ask Danny what he knew, because if he did that, he could accidentally reveal the existence of werewolves to someone who didn't actually know about them. But was it possible that Danny knew? How? And if he did, did he know Jackson was one of them? For how long? Jackson had to stop himself from going farther down that line of thought or Danny would get suspicious.

Jackson sighed. "Yeah, well, I still can't tell you."

"Can you tell me about the person you're sleeping with?" Danny said with a knowing smile.

The question took him so much by surprise that Jackson, much to his dismay, _blushed_. "What?"

Danny scoffed. "Please, you think I can't tell when you're getting laid on a regular basis? Give me some credit."

Jackson gave Danny a half-hearted glare before relenting. "I… we… don't want anyone else to know, okay?"

"Okay," said Danny. Danny, thankfully, had always been good about knowing how far to push Jackson. He gave Jackson an earnest look. "I know you suck at trusting people, and that's fine. But if you need to tell someone something, I'm here. ...If I don't get poisoned again," he added with a smile.

"Yeah, about that…" said Jackson. "Maybe you should stay away from Ethan."

"I dunno," said Danny, smiling faintly. "A body like that might be worth dying for."

Jackson laughed in spite of himself.

"Okay, I'm gonna go grab some food," said Jackson, getting up from his chair. "I'll come back later, though."

Danny nodded in acknowledgement, eyes already closed again. Jackson had clearly worn him out by talking to him. A food break and maybe a walk for Jackson would give Danny some time to rest, and his parents some time to visit without Jackson in the way. He'd drop by again before visiting hours were over.

* * *

STILES 

Thursday night had been kind of insane. Mayhem, missing people, mistletoe, and more Fun-Filled Adventures in Human Sacrifice. Almost as soon as Derek had magically shown up alive and healed (which Stiles had found out through Scott, who’d found out through Isaac, and Stiles was going to punch Derek in the face later), doctors started disappearing and Danny almost died. He was going to be okay, but Stiles still couldn't figure out why the hell he would've been poisoned in the first place.

And there was nothing quite like starting off your Friday with a phone call from your best friend's boss-slash-resident-werewolf-expert, who was about to be abducted and most likely become part of the aforementioned Adventures in Human Sacrifice. Unsurprisingly, Scott ran off to play hero and Stiles called his dad and took off after Scott as soon as he could. But they were too late.

Ms. Morrell was at the animal clinic, too, being all cryptic instead of just telling them to ask Lydia to help find Deaton. That meant Stiles got to go back to school to find her, which he did just in time to catch Cora threatening her, because there wasn't nearly enough drama that day already.

"I don't even know to start with this," said Stiles to Cora. "The only one of Derek's betas who is in school today isn't actually a student. So first, why are you here, and second, why is everybody else not here?"

Cora rolled her eyes. She did that a lot. It was kind of a Hale thing.

"Boyd and Isaac are at the loft with Derek, setting up a trap for the alphas. That's where I would be right now, if Derek hadn't sent me here to protect the girl who's dumb enough to sleep with one of the alpha werewolves who is trying to murder her friends."

Lydia opened her mouth to speak, but Stiles cut her off to prevent more bickering. "Okay, can we maybe dial it back a notch?"

Cora and Lydia glared at each other, and Stiles had a sudden, worrying thought:

"Wait, you said Boyd and Isaac were with Derek. What about--"

"Jackson's at the hospital with Danny," said Cora, anticipating him.

"Oh," said Stiles, fidgeting self-consciously. "Okay. Good."

"What he sees in you is beyond me," said Cora flatly, though Stiles would've sworn he saw the faintest hint of a smile on her lips when her words made Stiles' face flush.

Though Lydia was not happy about it and Cora was less than helpful, they decided to try yet again to tap into Lydia's unknown supernatural abilities. She flat-out refused to try the Ouija board again, and half a dozen other methods yielded no results, so by the time Lydia's 'automatic writing' turned out to be a drawing of a tree, Stiles was ready to throw something.

Scott appeared in the doorway just as Lydia was telling Stiles he should talk to Danny. (Because of coincidental dramatic timing reasons.) It turned out that Deucalion had randomly shown up in the middle of a high school--seriously, who was in charge of security there?--to give Scott a super helpful hint about why Danny had been poisoned. So they left school _yet again_ , this time to visit the hospital.

Cora and Lydia waited outside while Stiles snuck in to see Danny, who was pretty whacked-out on painkillers. Stiles found and managed to 'borrow' a paper Danny wrote for Harris out of his bag without Danny realizing Stiles wasn't just a drug-induced hallucination, but just as Stiles was about to leave he looked around the room and suddenly remembered...

"Wait, I thought Jackson was supposed to be here," said Stiles, half to himself before turning back to Danny. "Danny, was Jackson here today?"

After Stiles tapped Danny on the face and repeated his question a few times, Danny finally murmured, "Yeah."

"Where'd he go?" asked Stiles, starting to feel a bit frantic. "Danny? Come on, where is he?"

Danny didn't respond, even with more, maybe excessively vigorous, tapping.

"Danny? Where's Jackson?" asked Stiles more insistently. But it was pointless. Danny was unconscious again.

Fear tightened Stiles' chest. Derek had sent Cora to protect Lydia, but nobody was protecting Jackson. Maybe he wasn't a fragile human, but a beta werewolf all alone wouldn't stand a chance if the alphas went after him. Where the fuck had he gone?

Stiles asked Cora to text Jackson because he didn't want to seem clingy or over-reactive, and (bless her) she did it without comment. Stiles could sense the worry in both Cora and Lydia as well. It occurred to him then that the three of them all had a connection to Jackson, each in their own way. That meant extra-special, magnified worrying in their general vicinity.

While the text-and-worry party was underway, Stiles called Scott about Danny's paper and they exchanged some information and connected some dots. It was dark now. Deaton didn't have much time left. Back to the animal clinic, then, to have a pow-wow with Scott about telluric currents and matching maps and--

"He's in the vault," said Cora suddenly, looking slightly sick when she said it. "It's in the _same_ vault."

And then, just when they'd come up with a decent plan for saving Deaton:

"It's Boyd," said Cora with her phone in her hands. "The plan didn't work. They cut the power."

So it was off to the loft (minus Scott) to save the good(ish) werewolves from the definitely bad werewolves. The anxiety in the Jeep was palpable. The alpha pack was attacking the Hales, and there was still no response from Jackson, either to calls or texts. Stiles drove as fast as he dared. It was only when they got to the circuit breakers that Stiles realized they had no reliable way to tell Derek, Boyd, or Isaac when the power was about to come back on.

"I'm gonna go up there," said Stiles, gripping the baseball bat that he'd grabbed at the last minute from the back of his Jeep. "You can text me when you're about to turn the power back on and I'll warn them."

"Are you insane?" said Cora. "If they see you they could kill you on sight! I'm stronger, let me--"

"Yeah, you're stronger, so you need to keep doing what Derek told you to do: protect Lydia. If any of the circuit breakers are stuck you'll be a lot more useful than me anyway."

"But--"

"You're not gonna win this one, Cora," said Stiles firmly. "My phone's on vibrate. I'll feel it in my pocket. Give me at least three minutes to get there before you throw the last switch."

He was gone before either of them could respond. He didn't count the steps in the emergency stairwells because it would only tire him out more, but by the time he got to Derek's floor he was gasping for breath. The door was wide open.

"Stiles!" said Isaac. "What the fuck are you doing here? You--"

Kali and Derek were locked in a fierce battle, growling and scratching and splashing water everywhere while the twins went after Boyd. At the sight of Kali, Stiles felt a surge of anger well up in his chest for all of the pain she'd caused, all of the death and destruction and how much sick pleasure she got from it. Except for Deucalion, she was the worst of the alphas. Stiles gripped his bat tight in his hands, preparing to join the fray in some capacity, but--

"Isaac, stop him!" shouted Derek.

Isaac immediately sprang into action. He caught Stiles by the waist, wrested the bat from his hands, and used it to pin Stiles against his body, trapping Stiles' arms at his sides. It was pathetic how easily Isaac restrained Stiles, who gave up struggling when Isaac pulled the bat against his chest so forcefully that he had trouble breathing.

This alerted Kali to Stiles' presence, and the fight stopped temporarily. Kali stepped away from Derek's reach like avoiding him was nothing, and the twins moved between her and Derek to keep him from attacking while she was focused on Stiles. She walked over to stand in front of Stiles and Isaac, smirking.

"Interesting," she said as she looked Stiles up and down. "Yet another teenager for you to hide behind, Derek, only this time it's not even a wolf."

"I don't need superpowers to hurt you, wolfbitch," growled Stiles. Anger was making him reckless, but maybe distracting her would help buy them time until Cora and Lydia could get the power back on.

"I thought you were supposed to be the smart one," said Kali, evil smirk still firmly in place. She turned to Derek. "Tell you what, son of Talia. As a favor to you, I'll take care of your chatty little human pet first."

 _Take care of_. Translation: _put him out of his misery._ Well, fuck that.

Stiles moved as fast as his inferior human reflexes would let him. He elbowed Isaac hard in the gut and shoved his own body forward with his chest and upper arms, breaking Isaac's hold on the baseball bat and freeing Stiles. He grabbed the bat before it hit the ground and swung it up, preparing to bash that stupid smirk off that stupid werewolf bitch's sharp-toothed mouth.

"No!" shouted Derek, helpless to defend Stiles as Kali lunged for his frail human body, at the same time as "Stiles!" from Isaac echoed against the concrete walls.

It was over before it had even begun. The sharp, deep stab of pain in the side of Stiles' neck made him emit a scream that was choked off by the proximity of Kali's teeth to his windpipe and vocal cords. The coppery scent of blood-- _his_ blood--filled his nostrils, and liquid flooded his mouth.

He was only vaguely aware of his phone vibrating futilely in his pocket..

Stiles' muscles went lax, and the bat fell into the shallow water with a splash and a dull thunk. Stiles was sure he was going to faint. Fainting would be kind of a relief right now, actually. It was hard to breathe. Kali's grip on his shirt and her teeth in his flesh were all that kept him standing. As soon as she let go, his knees buckled.

His last thought before his head hit the water was, _Well, that's gonna leave a mark_.

* * *

DEREK 

There were four fewer heartbeats in Derek's loft than there had been a minute ago. Three enemies, one ally. Three had left. One…

He hadn't been able to stop the bleeding. The twin alphas had chosen the target for Derek's claws well, and alpha wounds healed too slowly. Now Derek stared down at Boyd’s lifeless body, uncomprehending, shaking. He wouldn't have believed it was real if not for the unbearable ache in his chest that threatened to overwhelm him. Worse still was the surge of power that had come with his beta's death. It was what the alpha pack had wanted, and it turned Derek's stomach. Guilt settled heavy on top of the grief.

Losing Erica had hurt, but Derek hadn't been there when… He hadn't been the one to…

That loss had been excruciating. This? This was unbearable.

Boyd had spent his dying breaths forgiving Derek. Telling him that it was okay. That it had been worth it. No, Derek thought. Nothing in the world could be worth this. A dying teenager shouldn't tell the person who had just killed him--who was supposed to _protect_ him--that it was okay. He shouldn't comfort his killer with acceptance in his eyes.

Derek had known a lot of pain in his life, and he’d thought that he’d experienced the worst a person could stand. He’d turned that pain and grief into anger and he’d made that anger his anchor. But it turned out he’d been wrong. There was always a deeper level of pain. Losing a packmate was like losing a limb. Losing a beta was like losing a _child_. And Derek hadn’t _lost_ Boyd. He’d _killed_ him.

Cora was sobbing over her dead packmate's body, filled with more emotion than Derek had seen since she was a little girl. Bonds formed during times of strife were the strongest, and Boyd and Cora had gone through so much together.

The blood on Derek's hands was dispersing into the water in which they rested at his sides. The metallic scent of it seemed to fill the room. But it was not just his beta's blood. Others were hurt. One of them badly.

Derek managed to tear his eyes away from the corpse and look over to the door. A woman was kneeling at Stiles' side, his head propped on her lap to keep it out of the water, her hand pressed to the wound in his neck to slow the bleeding. Jennifer. Isaac and Lydia flanked her, radiating grief and fear and uncertainty.

Stiles' pulse was faint but steady. Derek stumbled, heavy-legged, to get to him. Jennifer let him take Stiles from her. Derek was grateful for the woman's help, but for all she and Derek had shared together, she felt like an intruder to him now. This wasn't something she could understand or help with. Stiles wasn't in Derek's pack, but he was Derek's responsibility. He was… He was Derek's _friend_. And he was hurt. Derek had to fix it. Had to fix _something_.

"I'll make sure she gets home safe," said Isaac in a small voice, anticipating the order Derek would've given. "And if you want, I'll… I'll find Peter."

The _to help get rid of the body_ was implicit, lurking beneath the surface of Isaac's words. It was Erica all over again. Except this time, Derek had dealt the killing wounds. But Isaac was right; the sooner they took care of this, the better. Derek knew that.

Derek nodded his agreement while still looking down at Stiles' unconscious form. He was vaguely aware of Isaac and Jennifer leaving together.

"I-I need to find Jackson," said Cora, voice thick with tears. "He's still not answering his phone."

"Go," Derek managed, Jackson's name reminding him that he had another living beta who could be in danger because of him. They weren't on good terms, but Jackson was still pack. Derek couldn't let him get hurt, too.

Lydia insisted on going with Cora, and Cora didn't argue.

Two heartbeats in the room now. Derek was afraid to move Stiles. He might make the bleeding worse. Stiles might be hurt in other places he couldn't see. But the things he needed to help Stiles were upstairs, and Stiles needed to lie down somewhere safe and warm to heal--

Stiles groaned as he regained consciousness.

"The hell hap--?" croaked Stiles, before Derek pressed his palm more firmly to Stiles's neck, serving the dual purpose of stopping him from talking and minimizing the flow of blood, which was blessedly starting to slow.

"Don't talk. You're going to be fine."

Saying the words out loud helped Derek believe them a little. He needed to act like things weren't as bad as they were. Stiles was smart. He would sense it if Derek let the ache in his chest start to consume him. Derek forced the pain down and dragged himself out of the haze of grief and confusion. He couldn't do anything about Boyd right now, but he could help Stiles. And shutting himself off from pain? That was something he could do very well.

"Wha--?"

"I said don't talk," said Derek sternly. "Put your hand on your neck. Like that." Stiles obeyed, though he hissed through his teeth in pain. "I'm going to pick you up now, okay? It'll probably hurt like a bitch."

Stiles nodded awkwardly, looking (understandably) apprehensive.

"On the count of three," said Derek. "One, two--"

Stiles cried out as Derek hauled him up into his arms and stood, holding Stiles’ head close to Derek's shoulder so he wouldn't see Boyd's body. There would be time for explaining that to Stiles later. They got up the stairs with Stiles only wincing a few times as his neck got jarred, and then Derek carried him to the room that used to be Isaac's and set him down on the bed.

"I'm going to get some stuff to fix you up," said Derek. "I'll be right back."

Stiles made a sound of acknowledgement.

Derek walked out of the room with a fierce determination to heal Stiles. If he focused on that, he could hold himself together. He was an alpha, and his pack needed him to be strong. _Stiles_ needed him to be strong. So he focused on Stiles. Derek got what he needed--a soft washcloth, a basin of warm water, needle and thread, scissors, alcohol, bandages, medical tape--from a cupboard in the hall and returned to the bedroom.

"I don't have any anesthetic," Derek said as an apology.

Stiles gave him a look that Derek interpreted as, _Just get it over with_.

Derek nodded and knelt next to the bed and carefully cut Stiles' shirt away from his neck and shoulder. He then dipped the cloth in the water and began dabbing at the wound, gently clearing the blood away so he could see how bad the damage was. He sighed in relief when he could see that Stiles's major arteries, muscles, and ligaments were all intact. The worst of the bleeding had stopped already. Still, it was a pretty nasty bite. The change wasn't going to be quick or easy for Stiles. Like anything had been easy for any of them lately...

"Doesn't look like she tore you up too badly." Derek could still lie to Stiles a little while longer.

Stiles laughed without humor. It was strained and made him wince again.

"Don't be a wuss," said Derek, trying desperately to keep the mood light. "All right, here comes the fun part."

Stiles cried out again when Derek poured alcohol over the wound. It washed the rest of the blood away so Derek could begin stitching. Stiles stayed stock-still while Derek worked. His breaths were shallow and his heart was racing, but Derek was impressed by his pain tolerance. Stiles hissed when Derek dabbed alcohol over the freshly-stitched skin, but once the bandage was on, he looked a lot more comfortable.

"There," said Derek. He tried to look optimistic, but every time he saw someone get bitten he couldn't help but worry that any second there would be black liquid leaking from their nose.

This wasn't supposed to happen to Stiles. Stiles was a pain in the ass, sure, but he was also smart, and loyal, and compassionate, and _good_. Stiles didn't want to be a werewolf, not really. The bite wasn't a 'gift' for Stiles; it really was a curse. How many more teenagers' lives was Derek going to ruin?

"Fuck, your clothes are soaked," said Derek. Stiles would be sick enough from the Bite already without getting the chills on top of it.

Stiles gave Derek a mournful look as Derek cut the rest of Stiles' shirt off. Derek reached to help Stiles with his belt buckle, but Stiles rolled his eyes and weakly batted Derek's hand away. Apparently there was only so much indignity Stiles was willing to suffer, even when severely injured. He managed to remove his jeans with minimal help from Derek, and kept his boxers on despite the fact that they were probably wet, too.

The effort of this process exhausted Stiles. He closed his eyes even before he completely settled into the bed, then went still. After a minute or two of watching him, Derek reached out to smooth Stiles' bangs off his forehead, which was already feverish. The wolf in Derek felt the urge to nuzzle against Stiles' hair. To comfort. To apologize. But Stiles wasn't a wolf yet, and he wasn't in Derek's pack. He was just another kid that Derek had put in danger. One who would probably hate Derek when this was over. So instead, Derek stood and pulled the blankets over him.

"Softie," said Stiles tiredly with a rasp in his voice, eyes still closed.

"Don't tell anyone," said Derek in a hushed tone. "You'll ruin my reputation."

Derek took one last look at Stiles, turned off the light, and shut the door behind him.

It was such a senseless act, made by a psychopath seeking to hurt Derek as deeply as possible. Kali had done it because she could, and because she thought it was fun. Stiles wasn't in Derek's pack, and even if he had been, there was no power to be gained from killing a human. She'd made her point for Deucalion with Boyd. It wasn't even a so-called _sacrifice_. Just brutal, bloody violence.

One beta was murdered and another was made. Both were Derek's fault. The least he could do was help Stiles get through the change without burdening him with the knowledge of Boyd's death. Derek wasn't sure he could force the words out past the grief, anyway.

And if Stiles didn't survive, Derek would personally see to it that anyone and everyone who'd ever been allied with the alpha pack was ripped to pieces and scattered across half of California. Anger had always been Derek’s strongest anchor, but he’d be all too happy to let his wolf run free, fueled by that rage instead of contained by it.

_I'm giving you till the next full moon, Derek. Join the pack, or next time I'm killing all of you._

Not while Derek still breathed. Maybe Derek was a shitty alpha, maybe getting shittier by the day, but he'd be damned if he'd sit by and watch another innocent kid die because of him. Deucalion and his pack would pay for this, in blood, before Derek was finished with them. They wanted him to be a killer? Fine. He'd killed an alpha before, and he'd do it as many times as it took to end this. Derek had told Kali that he'd rip her throat out with his teeth. It might be nice, for once, to keep his word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaa! I've been wanting to post this chapter forever, and I'm so glad that it's finally done. I'm excited to hear what you all think! Timeline: 3A, Episode 7.
> 
> Thanks to my new collaborator (on an upcoming project) [Savannah_Clover](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Savannah_Clover) for helping me work out some plot stuff and to my brilliant beta [Ismene_Jane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ismene_Jane) for going above and beyond the call on this madness.


	20. Caninity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER TWENTY: CANINITY

STILES

When Stiles woke up, the room was dark and quiet. Scott had said that the first thing he’d noticed after he’d been bitten was enhanced hearing, but for Stiles it seemed to be all about _smells_. Lying in what used to be Isaac’s bed under what used to be Isaac’s blankets made everything smell so overwhelmingly _Isaac_ that Stiles would’ve sworn Isaac was in the room.

Then he caught another scent. A wonderful, soothing, familiar scent. He breathed it in deeply, then exhaled. He would know that scent anywhere.

“Jackson?” he said experimentally. His voice sounded rough and unused, but at least he could talk now. He also found to his relief that it didn’t hurt his neck.

A shadow shifted in the dark--it would be nice if super wolf vision would kick in--and Stiles could make out a figure sitting on the floor next to the bed, back braced against the wall. An unexpectedly strong wave of relief washed over Stiles. He hadn’t realized until that moment that his last interaction with Jackson had been a fucking text message (unanswered, no less), and that he hadn’t seen him in what felt like days.

“How’re you feeling?” asked Jackson.

Stiles groaned melodramatically, then coughed a few times before speaking again. “Like someone hit me in the head with a mace and there might be a baby alien about to burst through my chest.”

“Derek said you didn’t get a clean bite.” Jackson’s voice was level, hard to read.

Stiles snorted. “That’s a nice way of saying Kali almost ripped my throat out.”

“Well, that’s why you feel like shit right now.” Stiles could practically _hear_ Jackson rolling his eyes. “And it might take you longer...”

 _To change_ , Stiles finished Jackson’s sentence mentally.

“Any black nosebleeds?” Stiles asked hesitantly.

Jackson’s pulse spiked briefly--and it wasn’t until then that Stiles realized he could hear it--before evening out again. “So far so good.”

Brilliant, Stiles. Remind the guy of one of the worst things that’s ever happened to him without thinking because everything is about _you_. Stiles closed his eyes again because when he tried to focus, everything got spinny. Hell, when he tried to do _anything_ everything got spinny. Spinny was his default state of being right now.

He and Jackson slipped into about as comfortable a silence as they could manage with Stiles being in horrible pain and all.

“Isaac smells weird,” said Stiles. “Derek should wash the sheets.”

Jackson made a little sound of amusement in the dark. “You’ll get used to it. The locker room’s pretty bad, though.”

They were both quiet again for a while. It still wasn’t an awkward silence, but it started to grow heavy. The less Stiles talked, the more focused his brain was on the pain. Talking to Jackson helped. Maybe it would help more to have more Jackson...

“Hey, Jackson?” said Stiles tentatively.

“Yeah?”

“I know it’s not, like, a thing we do, but…” Stiles trailed off, reconsidering if it was a stupid request, and starting to regret that he’d said anything at all.

“What?” Jackson sounded a little impatient.

Stiles hesitated, but he wanted it badly enough to risk the disappointment of Jackson rejecting his request.

“Could you be, like. Less down there. And more up here?” Stiles made a pathetic half-hearted flailing kind of gesture with his shockingly _very_ heavy arm that was intended to indicate that he wanted Jackson on the bed with him.

There was a tense pause. Stiles and Jackson, as a rule, did not just hang out in bed together unless Jackson was coming down from a submissive high. It had always been kind of an unspoken understanding between them.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Stiles quickly, figuring he’d been right in suspecting that Jackson wouldn’t be comfortable with the please-stay-close-to-Stiles-he-feels-like-Wolverine’s-claws-are-in-his-chest-and-Deadpool’s-katanas-are-in-his-head-or-visa-versa situation, and backtracking to keep Jackson from leaving.

But then a weight was making the edge of the bed sag, and Jackson’s scent was stronger.

“Move over,” he muttered to Stiles, and Stiles found out that moving was super bad for the whole spinny state-of-being thing he had going on, but it was worth it if it meant Jackson would be closer to him. Stiles had generally found Jackson’s physical proximity to be comforting even when he was a human, but now there was an animal growing in him that craved that closeness to Jackson on a base level.

Stiles made himself about as comfortable as he could manage lying on his side in a strange bed with a strange pillow, and almost jumped when he felt Jackson settle in behind him. It occurred to Stiles that he had never been the little spoon, so to speak, and that Jackson had never voluntarily moved this close against him unless sex was involved. It was weird. Weird, but nice. Very, very nice.

“You smell good,” said Stiles, voice betraying his exhaustion. “Way better than Isaac.”

“I assume I’m supposed to take that as a compliment?” said Jackson dryly, and Stiles could almost hear the eye-roll again.

“Hey, you’ve been creepily obsessed with my scent for months, but now that I--”

“Go back to sleep,” ordered Jackson. Stiles felt a cool palm press against his forehead and another against his bare chest. He only registered when the pain began to fade that if it weren’t dark he’d see black lines crawling up Jackson’s arms.

Stiles inhaled deeply and sighed out the breath. He was surrounded by Jackson’s body and his scent and Jackson was taking the pain away. Stiles felt as safe and as much at peace as someone who was slowly and excruciatingly turning into a monster could.

“Thanks,” he whispered into the dark.

“Do I have to knock you unconscious?” was the answering whisper against his ear.

Just this once, Stiles was the one who obeyed.

* * *

JACKSON

It shouldn’t hurt this much, Jackson tried to reason with himself. He’d barely even known Boyd. They’d spent a little more time together recently, but they’d never been friends. Jackson shouldn’t feel like he’d been gutted. He shouldn’t feel this much grief. He shouldn’t have to focus so hard on the physical pain he was taking from Stiles because it was more bearable than the ache of loss within him. He shouldn’t be clinging to Stiles so desperately, terrified by how tenuous Stiles’ hold on life had been and bewildered by realizing for the first time how the thought of losing Stiles made Jackson feel.

This was why Jackson hated _caring_. Caring made things stressful and complicated, frustrating and painful. Caring fucked with his head almost as much as pack instinct, and made him make stupid decisions. Caring got people hurt, even killed. And now he’d fucked everything up, because he hadn’t tried hard enough to keep another person from becoming something he really, _really_ cared about.

Alone with Stiles like this, with Stiles so close to Jackson and in so much pain, it was difficult to care about anything else.

Jackson curled protectively around Stiles and tightened his hold on his stomach. It was okay, because Stiles had asked him for this. Jackson was helping an injured friend heal. (Is that what they were now? Friends?) As long as Stiles was asleep and the others weren’t there to see, he could do this. He could hide his face in Stiles’ hair and inhale his scent. He could listen to Stiles’ pulse and match the rhythm of his breath. Jackson could be with Stiles and not care that he was caring, because nobody else was there to care, either.

He hadn’t been aware that he was sleeping until he became instantly awake at the sound of the door opening. Jackson squinted at the backlit silhouette in the several seconds before the door closed again, every sense alert to the presence of the intruder. It wasn’t until Jackson tried to sit up that he realized he had his arm around someone. Someone injured, someone he needed to protect from the potential threat that had just entered the room. Jackson couldn’t see the intruder properly, even through his wolf’s eyes. The scent was vaguely familiar. A wolf, but not pack.

His growl of warning was met with a whispered, “It’s okay, Jackson. It’s just me.”

 _McCall_. The name echoed in his head at the sound of the voice, calling Jackson’s human mind to wake up and take control back from the wolf. McCall was no threat to the injured ‘someone’ in Jackson’s arms. McCall was his— _Stiles_ ’; it was _Stiles_ who the wolf was guarding so jealously—McCall was Stiles’ friend.

Jackson slowly came back to himself, and with human consciousness came pain. A burning in his skin, aches that reached into the marrow of his bones, the sensation that nails were being hammered into his skull. He couldn’t understand why every inch of him hurt so badly. He knew he wasn’t injured.

But _Stiles_ was injured. And Jackson had kept his bare hands pressed to Stiles’ skin while they’d slept. It was Stiles' pain he was feeling.

“You okay?” said McCall.

“Yeah,” said Jackson dismissively, though it took him two tries to get the word out. Reluctantly, he extricated himself from Stiles, who made a pitiful little sound as he was jostled that made Jackson desperate to stay with him.

“Is he--?” McCall started, voice infused with worry.

“Sleeping,” said Jackson. Again, even the one word took effort. As he dragged himself out of the bed, Jackson became increasingly aware of how weak he was, and that he was shaking. Badly.

“Jackson--" McCall started again, probably because he’d noticed (even in the dark) that Jackson had nearly fallen over when he’d stood up.

“I’m fine,” insisted Jackson. Knowing McCall would know he was lying. Knowing McCall could probably sense his pain. And not even remotely giving a fuck.

“You can stay,” said McCall. “I can come back later. I mean, if he’s asleep anyway--”

“No,” said Jackson. “You should be here.”

McCall frowned. “If you’re sure…”

“I am,” said Jackson firmly. He turned back toward the bed to get one last fleeting glance of Stiles in the dark before he left the room, closing the door behind him.

He had to brace his back against the door to keep from falling, and even then he slid to the ground against it. Jackson drew his knees up and hunched in on himself, body, mind, and heart so raw and wracked with pain that he could barely form coherent thoughts. His eyes stung with unshed tears and his chest was unbearably tight. Jackson had to choke back several sobs, forcing the breath to push slowly in and out of his lungs while his body shook with the effort. He didn’t want anyone to hear him like this.

In less than two days Jackson had nearly lost two of the most important people in his life, and he hadn’t been there for any of it. Danny’s lung had collapsed while Jackson had been at home doing homework. Stiles’ throat had almost been ripped out while Jackson had been spending his day worrying about Danny, oblivious to a dozen texts and calls because he’d forgotten to take his stupid charger with him to the hospital and his phone had died just before dark. His pack had needed him, and Jackson hadn’t been there.

Maybe if they’d been able to reach him he could’ve kept Stiles away from Kali, or helped Isaac and Derek fight the alphas. Stiles could still be human and Boyd could still be alive. Or maybe Jackson would’ve been killed instead. There was no way of knowing now.

Jackson had failed every single person who had needed him, and he was _still_ failing them. The alpha pack had taken two of his packmates. Next it would be Isaac, or Cora, or Jackson, until Derek gave in.

 _Cora_. God, she would be hurting so much more deeply because of Boyd than Jackson was. Jackson should be with his cousin. He should be with his pack. He allowed a few persistent tears to escape, then wiped at his eyes furiously. Then he took several deep breaths, steeled his strength, and got shakily to his feet.

* * *

DEREK

When Jackson came back downstairs after a few hours with Stiles, he was radiating pain and exhaustion, to the point where Derek could feel it from where he’d been pacing by the window.

“What the hell, Jackson!” said Derek, alarmed. “How much of his pain did you take?”

Jackson only shrugged tiredly, standing at the bottom of the staircase for a moment to steady himself on the railing. Alpha instinct prompted Derek to go to him, but when he reached to help support him, Jackson waved him off.

“Don’t do that again,” said Derek. He frowned, bracing a hand on Jackson’s shoulder and forcing him to meet his eyes. “I’m serious. That could _kill_ you if you’re not careful.”

Jackson looked like he couldn’t have cared less about his own well-being. Without responding, he slipped from Derek’s grasp and stumbled over to the bed. Cora was lying on top of the covers, conscious but motionless, staring blankly out of the window. Isaac was on the other side of the bed, with a space between him and Cora, somehow asleep. Isaac had a tendency to shut down when he was in pain. Derek was a little jealous of his ability to escape, even though he knew that it had probably come out of Isaac having to deal with physical and emotional pain on such a regular basis.

Derek was surprised when Jackson crawled onto the bed between Cora and Isaac and settled in next to her. She didn’t show any sign of response when he put his arm around her waist and pulled her back against him. Derek hadn’t realized they’d become so close. He sat on the couch with that unbearable ache in his chest and watched his three remaining betas grieve, each in their own way.

Derek had helped Peter with Boyd’s body--an experience he was likely to carry with him for the rest of his life--and he had been relieved when his uncle had gone home. He was bitter enough over Peter being oh-so-conveniently (for Peter) absent when the alphas had attacked, without having to deal with any superior looks or snarky comments while he was feeling like _this_.

Derek could hear Jackson’s heart racing from the pain, so it was no wonder that Isaac stirred, instinct telling him there might be a threat. He rolled over to face Jackson and put a hand on Jackson’s wrist without hesitation. Cora reached up and pressed her palm to Jackson’s cheek. Black lines crawled up Isaac’s and Cora’s arms for a few moments before they let go, each taking some of Stiles’ pain from Jackson into themselves. Jackson’s pulse began to calm. It was only a few minutes before Isaac had retreated back into himself again, escaping into sleep.

Cora and Jackson stayed awake, though neither of them moved or spoke. Derek went over to the bed and bent to kiss Cora’s forehead and press his face against her hair to catch her scent. To show his solidarity, he placed his hand on Jackson’s arm and took some of Stiles’ pain as well. Derek was impressed by Jackson’s selflessness (albeit ill-advised) in taking that much of Stiles’ pain. He wouldn’t have expected that from Jackson. Maybe there was more between the two of them than Derek had realized. It wouldn’t be the first time Derek had been oblivious to something happening in Jackson’s life.

Derek hesitated before reaching to run his hand slowly over Jackson’s short hair. After all of the misery he’d caused Jackson, Derek wasn’t sure he had the right to invoke pack comfort with him like this. He half expected Jackson to push his hand away, but he didn’t. He just closed his eyes, muscles relaxing almost imperceptibly. It gave him some comfort, albeit small, to know that Derek’s connection to his most reluctant beta was still there, though tenuous.

Isaac was last, though never least. Derek went to the other side of the bed and knelt beside it, watching Isaac’s sleeping form. Isaac was the only remaining member of Derek’s original three-beta pack. He must have felt the deaths of Boyd and Erica more keenly than any of them, except maybe Cora. Derek had brought so much pain to Isaac’s already painful life, yet Isaac had always been devoted to him, at times to an unhealthy degree.

Derek nuzzled his face into his stubborn, brave, damaged, idiotically loyal beta’s cropped curls and inhaled his scent as well. He had kept some distance between himself and his betas for the most part, especially lately, but if there was ever a time to reaffirm the bond, it was now. Not for the first time, Derek found some small measure of comfort in the fact that Isaac’s existence meant Derek hadn’t failed completely as an alpha.

Isaac’s eyes opened, and Derek felt a little guilty for waking him. But then Isaac got his arm around Derek’s back and dragged him down for a fierce (though somewhat awkwardly positioned) one-armed hug. Derek shifted and helped Isaac sit up so he could hug him properly. Isaac hid his face in Derek’s shoulder, and Derek could feel the exact moment when Isaac finally broke. He clung to Derek tightly as his body shook with silent sobs. Maybe he wasn’t that good at compartmentalizing, after all.

Derek wanted to comfort Isaac, to soothe him with calming words, but they wouldn’t come. What could he possibly say anyway? There weren’t words for this. This wasn’t the kind of pain Derek could take into himself, veins turning black. And he couldn’t let his own grief out with Isaac’s, because that would risk himself breaking, too.

They stayed like that for several long minutes. Derek cradled the back of Isaac’s head and held it close to his shoulder while Isaac cried. When the worst of it had passed, Cora got up and moved to Jackson’s other side. She slowly rubbed Isaac’s back until his hold on Derek slackened, then she helped him lie back on the bed again, where she wrapped her arms around him and whispered words of comfort against his ear. Derek wondered at how someone so tall and so full of attitude could look so small and fragile.

Jackson settled back in on Cora’s other side, and soon the three betas were still again, the two boys flanking Cora. Derek couldn’t remember ever seeing something so heartbreaking or so beautiful at the same time.

Not being able to do any more for his pack, Derek went back upstairs to check on Beacon Hills’ newest werewolf. Scott was sitting on the floor next to the bed, watching Stiles sleep fitfully. He looked up when Derek came in.

“How’s he doing?” said Derek.

“Okay,” said Scott quietly. “I think the worst is over. I hope so, anyway.”

“I should get the stitches out before his healing really kicks in.”

Scott nodded and moved to make room for Derek. Derek knelt by the bed and removed the bandage from Stiles’ neck. The wound was still there, but it was healing a lot more quickly than it would’ve on a human. Derek told himself that was a good sign. He took the scissors and carefully cut away the stitches, pulling them out as smoothly as he could. Stiles stirred a bit, but didn’t wake up. When Derek was done, he cleaned the remaining blood off Stiles’ neck. With any luck, the bite would be completely healed within the next day or so.

He and Scott sat on the floor together, speaking in low tones so they wouldn’t disturb Stiles.

“So you rescued Deaton?” asked Derek. He’d assumed so based on Scott’s behavior, but Derek had been a little preoccupied when Scott had shown up, and Scott had gone to see Stiles almost immediately anyway.

“Yeah,” said Scott. “I don’t think I could’ve done it except Stiles’ dad showed up at the last minute. I found Deaton when he was still alive, but there was a circle of mountain ash around him. I couldn’t break it.”

“One of those times when being a werewolf actually makes you weaker,” said Derek sympathetically.

Scott nodded. “Something happened, though…”

Derek looked at Scott when he hesitated. “What?”

“Deaton said… He said that when I was trying to break the circle… that my eyes turned red.”

“Alpha red?” said Derek, taken aback.

“He said it’s rare, but it happens sometimes.” Scott shrugged awkwardly, like he didn’t really know what to make of the situation. “He called it--”

“A true alpha,” said Derek as it dawned on him. He stared at Scott, stunned by the revelation in spite of everything else that had already happened that day. Derek had heard about true alphas before, but that was in stories. They were supposed to be incredibly rare. Derek had certainly never met one. Could a teenage boy really become an alpha based on the strength of his character? Sure, Scott was a good kid, but…

“Show me your eyes,” said Derek.

Scott closed his eyes for a moment, brow furrowed in concentration. When he opened them, it was undeniable: they were the same bright red as Derek’s.

“What color are they?” asked Scott hesitantly.

“Red,” said Derek, awed. “You’re an alpha, Scott.”

“Seriously?” said Scott. “But… _how_?”

Derek shrugged. “Deaton probably knows more about it than I do.”

“Right.” Scott sighed deeply. “Well, if I really _am_ an alpha, then we have another problem.”

“What?”

“Deucalion might not be after you,” said Scott. “Or at least, not _just_ you.”

Derek’s eyes widened when he realized what Scott meant. “You think he knew this whole time? That you might be a true alpha?”

“I don’t know,” said Scott. “Either way, I think it means things are probably going to get worse.”

Derek nodded his grim agreement as he came to another realization. “You have something else to make it more complicated now, too.”

“What’s that?” said Scott.

Derek tilted his head meaningfully toward the bed. “I think you might already have a beta.”

He left Scott with Stiles to consider that issue and went back downstairs to lie down on the couch. There was a text from Lydia asking how things were going, and Derek sent her a short reply with a reassuring version of the truth. Everyone (who was still living) was fine. The best thing she could do right now was act normal and let them know if she had any supernatural feelings or found any bodies or anything like that. She was also in charge of somehow arranging things so that Jackson’s parents and Stiles’ dad weren’t alarmed that their kids hadn’t come home that night.

Jennifer had texted Derek, too. He ignored it. A romantic entanglement, or whatever he and Jennifer had, was beyond unimportant right now. Derek had indulged in having something for himself, and now his pack was suffering. Even if being with Jennifer hadn’t caused what had happened tonight, he still couldn’t spare a thought for her at the moment. His feelings for her were inconsequential now that Derek had been served a heaping dose of perspective.

Derek managed to doze for a little while once his betas (based on pulse and breathing) seemed to have slipped into sleep themselves. Unfortunately, sleeping wasn’t much better than being awake. The awful feelings of loss and anxiety led to nightmares about his betas being hurt or killed, and when he woke up in a cold sweat he had to go over to the bed to make sure they were okay before he could calm down again.

All he could do now was wait and worry. He paced back and forth by the window, looking up every once in a while at the ominous symbol the alphas had left on the glass. It was only a matter of time before someone else was taken to be a human sacrifice, or the alphas came for the Hales again, or Scott.

So Derek waited. He waited in his loft, where five sets of cacophonous pulses reverberated in in his ears, reassuring Derek that five hearts were still beating near his own. He focused on those five heartbeats with what little energy he had left. Five heartbeats. Five fragile lives he couldn’t fail. Five kids he would protect at any cost. Even if it meant stopping his own heart to do it.

If he kept promising himself that, maybe he could believe it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does anybody else need a hug? XD Ouch.
> 
> Timeline: Between season 3A episodes 7 and 8.
> 
> Thanks to my brilliant beta [Ismene_Jane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ismene_Jane) for continuing to be amazing, and to all of you for reading!


	21. Mortality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: MORTALITY

DEREK

Derek waited with his betas for as long as he could before it became too much to deal with. Then he checked in on Scott and Stiles and told Scott he was leaving for a bit. Scott didn’t ask questions, for which Derek was grateful. He was also grateful that he had another alpha who would watch over his pack while he was gone. A True Alpha. They’d be all right with him.

He thought about taking his car, but that would make it easier for someone to find him, and Derek didn’t want to be found for a while. So he walked. He walked into the dark, through Beacon Hills, out to the preserve where the burned-out skeleton of his childhood home still stood. He watched the sun rise from its front steps. Then he headed into the forest.

A true wolf form would make this easier, more effective. Derek didn’t have that luxury, but if he tried hard enough, he could manage to transform enough to escape. He could let his wolf take over, surrender to his instincts, and lose the part of himself that was hurting, if only for a little while.

He took off his shoes. The ground was cool and soft beneath his feet. He took off his shirt, and the chill morning breeze made goosebumps spring up along his skin. He closed his eyes and stood, motionless, as he called to the wolf inside him that he was used to forcing down.

Anger was his anchor to his human self. With great effort, he let his anger go.

His eyes shifted. His teeth sharpened. Hair and claws and ears all changed. Scents became stronger. Sounds became louder. His vision was sharper. And as his physical senses took over, his sense of time, of space, of emotion weakened. The forest was a blanket covering the parts of himself that he didn’t need right now.

The wolf awoke with only a vague sense of loss on the edges of its awareness.

It howled its mourning to the sleeping moon.

* * *

STILES

When Stiles woke up again, he smelled Scott over the lingering scent of Jackson in the room and the Isaac-infused sheets. God, boys were gross.

“Hey, Scotty,” he said with what he hoped was a smile.

“Hey, Stiles,” said Scott with a massive sigh of relief, like he’d been holding his breath until Stiles regained consciousness. “How’re you feeling?”

Stiles shifted onto his side and winced. With his eyes still closed, he did a quick mental inventory of his body and found that he was still aching all over and felt groggy and sluggish, but the pain was only a faint shadow of its former self and he wasn’t feverish anymore. He raised his hand to gingerly touch the wound in his neck, but the bandage and stitches were gone. All he felt was smooth skin. He reluctantly opened his eyes. Even in the half-light of the room, it was clear that Scott was completely exhausted.

“Better than you _look_.”

Scott snorted, but he was smiling. “Remind me why I was worried about you?”

“Because I’m the most amazing person you know and your life is meaningless without me.”

“Oh, yeah.” There was a pause, and Scott’s smile faltered. “Sorry I wasn’t here.”

“Not your fault I was a dumbshit,” said Stiles dismissively. He outright refused to let Scott feel guilty about what had happened to him, especially since there were already a dozen other things Scott was determined to take responsibility for. “Is Deaton okay?”

“Yeah, he’s fine,” said Scott. “It was kind of a close call, but your dad showed up and saved him. I couldn’t get to Deaton because there was a circle of Mountain--”

“Fuck!” Stiles shot up in bed at the mention of his dad. “What day is it? How long was I out? Dad must be flipping his shit! Where’s my phone?”

Stiles hadn’t seen or talked to his dad in what felt like days, and with all the disappearances and murders lately, any reasonable parent (especially if they were the person in charge of investigating said disappearances and murders) would be worried if they hadn’t seen their kid for that long.

“Your phone’s in the freezer in a bag of rice,” said Scott.

Stiles stared blankly at him. “Did I have a stroke? Those words don’t belong in a sentence together.”

“You fell in the water on the floor,” Scott explained. “Isaac said if your phone gets wet you’re supposed to put it in a bag of rice in the freezer. I don’t know if it actually works. Guess we’ll see.”

Stiles refrained from making a comment about Isaac’s knowledge of freezers.

“And to answer your other questions, it’s Saturday, you were only out for one night, and your dad thinks you’re with me and your phone is dead. Which is technically true. My mom covered for us.”

“Oh,” said Stiles, stunned by how (relatively) under control the situation was, all things considered. “Well, okay, uh. Cool? I guess?”

“I have to tell you something, though,” said Scott.

“I’m guessing the chances aren’t good that it’s something fun and awesome like they’re finally gonna do a Marvel crossover movie where Spidey and Wolverine are on the Avengers?”

Scott shook his head, expression grave.

“Boyd’s dead.”

“What?” Stiles gaped. He certainly hadn’t been expecting _that_. “When? How?”

“Isaac said it was right after you got bitten,” said Scott. “The alphas… They made Derek kill him.”

Stiles’ brain couldn’t find any words, let alone push them out of his mouth. He’d experienced a lot of death in the past year, but he hadn’t thought…

“Fuck,” he muttered feebly.

“Sorry no one told you earlier. Derek figured there was no point until you healed up.”

“Derek… He bandaged me up. Never said anything about it.”

“He still hasn’t said anything about it,” said Scott. “He left a little while after I got here. He said he needed some space.”

Stiles picked at the blanket. “Is everyone else okay?”

“Yeah. They’re sleeping downstairs. Jackson forgot to call his parents so Lydia had to get Danny to cover for him.”

Stiles’ stomach twinged at the thought that Jackson had stayed with him. That the fact that Stiles was hurt had made Jackson forget something that important. Not that Stiles wanted Jackson to get in trouble or anything, but still.

Scott must’ve sensed something from Stiles that gave him away.

“He gives more of a shit about you than you think,” said Scott.

“I guess,” said Stiles, looking away awkwardly.

“He _growled_ at me when I came in here,” said Scott with a smile in his voice. “I think he would’ve bit my hand off if he thought I was gonna hurt you.”

“Hunh,” said Stiles. What was he supposed to say to that? Scott was Stiles’ best friend, but it was still weird to talk to him about Jackson. Hell, it was weird to talk to _anyone_ about Jackson. It was weird to even think about Jackson right now, actually.

After an uncomfortable pause, he said, “So can I get out of here now? I reek of Isaac and it’s starting to freak me out.”

“You smell like Jackson, too,” said Scott with a smirk.

“Hey, I have fangs and claws now, remember? Don’t tempt me to make you the first thing I test them out on.”

“Oh!” said Scott. “That reminds me.”

Scott sat up straight and looked directly at Stiles. Stiles watched him in confusion, then gaped when Scott’s eyes glowed red.

“Holy shit!”

“Uh-huh,” said Scott.

“How-- You-- What the hell happened? Did you kill an alpha?”

“No,” said Scott. “Deaton says it can just happen sometimes. We can talk to him more about it later. Here.”

He handed Stiles a change of clothes that weren’t the ones he’d worn to the loft. Oh, right. His old shirt was now covered in blood and all cut up.

“I guess you should probably burn my old clothes,” said Stiles.

“Peter already did. He’s creepily good at covering up evidence.”

“That does not surprise me in the slightest.”

Stiles hauled himself to his feet, stretched (causing a few loud popping sounds to echo from his joints), and put on the clean clothes. Then he followed Scott out of the room.

* * *

JACKSON

By morning the physical part of the pain--the part he'd taken from Stiles--had faded. Jackson woke up in Derek's bed, sharing a pillow with Cora, his arm around her waist. Scent and sound reminded him before he opened his eyes that Isaac was sleeping on her other side. Isaac's arm was over Cora, too, and was long enough that his hand rested on Jackson's side, near his hip. Something at the back of Jackson's brain struggled to object to that, but he didn't have the energy to give a fuck. He barely had the will to open his eyes.

He focused his hearing enough to figure out that Stiles was sleeping soundly, pulse and breath slow and even. A tight ball of worry that Jackson hadn't realized had formed in his chest eased a bit.

Derek hadn’t come back yet, but Jackson hadn’t expected him to. ‘I need some space’ was Derek-speak for ‘I need to go sulk somewhere. Don’t try to find me.’ But for once, Jackson couldn’t blame Derek for abandoning them. Not after what had happened last night.

Cora stirred, shifting on her side so she could face Jackson. Her eyes were less distant than they had been before they’d all slept, but she looked as exhausted as Jackson felt, and much older. She pressed her palm to Jackson’s cheek and gave him a sad kind of smile.

“He’s okay now,” she said softly. “You can hear it, right?”

‘He’ meant Stiles. Cora’s packmate was dead and her brother had left and the first thing she’d said was something to comfort Jackson. It had the opposite effect. Cora shouldn’t be worrying about how what had happened to Stiles made Jackson feel. She should be worrying about herself, about their pack. Jackson nodded awkwardly and avoided her eyes.

"What you did for him... It was brave."

Jackson snorted.

"It was also incredibly stupid,” she added sternly, “and you're lucky you're not dead after taking that much pain."

“I'm never here when this shit happens," said Jackson. "How is only being around after the fighting is done brave?"

"Just because you weren't there doesn't mean you didn't help."

Jackson shook his head, determined not to look at Cora’s earnest expression. He didn’t want to be told that anything he’d done in this situation had helped. At best, he’d been useless. People had fought and died for their pack. What had Jackson done? Lain in bed with someone who was hurt because he hadn’t been there to stop him from getting hurt in the first place.

"He was in pain,” said Cora. “You took it away."

"Someone else could've--"

"But they didn't,” she insisted. “You did."

Jackson was saved from having to respond by the sound of voices from upstairs. Stiles was awake. On impulse, Jackson sat up in bed. He was halfway to standing up before he realized he had absolutely no idea what he was doing. What, was he going to run up the stairs, burst into the bedroom, and give Stiles a hug? Fuck that.

So he sat back down on the edge of the bed. Cora spoke from behind him.

“You act like it’s so complicated with him.”

“It is.”

“Why?”

No. There was no way Jackson was going to talk about this. Not with Cora. Not with anyone.

“It just is.”

Jackson got up and went to the window, suddenly full of nervous energy. Cora looked like she might try to push the issue (which was unlike her), but then Isaac woke up. She turned back toward their packmate and put her arm around him while Jackson paced between the window and the tall table.

Everything was so confusing and painful and uncertain and Jackson just wanted it to _stop_. Under different circumstances, Jackson might've gone to Stiles so he could escape into submission, so he wouldn't have to think about any of this. So he wouldn't have to feel anything except what Stiles _made_ him feel.

But Stiles had his own problems now. Jackson could be a selfish asshole, but he wasn't an idiot. Asking Stiles for that right now would probably lead to rejection, which Jackson definitely wouldn't be able to handle. Especially after whatever the hell had happened between them last night. There had been a few hours there when nothing in the world had mattered more to Jackson than the fact that Stiles was alive, and it had felt...

Jackson couldn't just feel what he’d felt when he’d been with Stiles like that, and then pretend it didn’t matter. Could he?

Could Stiles?

The sound of footsteps on the staircase made Jackson jump. He had been pacing in silence for a few minutes, lost to his surroundings. He looked up and saw Stiles clearly for the first time in days.

Stiles was even paler than usual, but other than that he seemed fine. The bite was pretty much healed. He even gave Jackson a weak smile when their eyes met, and suddenly Jackson felt trapped. He couldn’t stay here. If he stayed, he’d have to talk to Stiles, and he had no fucking clue what he was supposed to say to him.

It took physical energy to break eye contact with Stiles, but Jackson managed to do it after a few long seconds. He looked away self-consciously. Before Stiles could say anything to him (or to anyone), Jackson turned to Cora and Isaac, who were sitting up now.

"My parents are going to kill me if I don’t go home," he said as he hunted down his jacket and shrugged it on quickly. "I'll come back when I can."

“I… okay,” said Cora, glancing to Stiles and then back to Jackson with a frown. “See you later.”

“Later,” said Jackson. Then he left as quickly as he could without running.

His parents weren’t angry. Lydia had told them he’d been with Danny. Everything was fine at home. Eerily so. There was so much blood and pain and death in Jackon’s life now that his warm, clean, safe house was starting to feel strange to him. He wondered if his parents noticed that Jackson had changed at all. If they did, maybe they just put it down to the almost-dying thing. Maybe they thought it was a phase. Ha. If only.

The rest of the day was blurry, foggy. Jackson did some of his homework without really being aware of whether he was doing it right. It all seemed so trivial now. He skipped lunch. He napped, dreaming that Stiles was there with him, shivering and in pain in Jackson’s arms. He woke up sweating, heart racing. He took a cold shower. He watched TV . He ate dinner with his parents. He dicked around on the Internet for a while. He ignored texts from Danny and Cora. He went to bed.

He dreamed about Stiles again.

He woke up hating himself.

He wished it had all been a nightmare. He wished Stiles was there, human, telling Jackson it wasn’t real, fucking him--Was it messed up to think about sex in the middle of all this?--until Jackson truly believed that he was okay. That they were all okay. That everything would be fine.

It wouldn’t.

The next morning, Jackson went back to the loft, like he’d promised Cora he would. She was his pack. She was his _cousin_. She was grieving. After all she had done for him, Jackson owed it to her to be there for her, even though being with her meant he had to think about what had happened.

He should’ve called first. Stiles was there. Jackson could hear him from the hallway.

“Okay, so is two days standard, then, or is Derek on some kind of extended getaway?”

“Why do you care?” Cora’s voice, even and serious.

“Because some serious shit is going down, okay? And from where I’m standing it looks like a lot of it has to do with Derek. The least he can do is, I dunno, stop turning tail and running away every time something bad happens and leave a bunch of teenagers alone to deal with it.”

“You think Derek can do anything?”

“I think he can do more than hide, yeah. I--”

“Jackson,” said Cora. She’d realized he was outside the door. Well, there was no turning back now. He opened it and stepped into the loft. Stiles was across the room but Jackson could still pick up his scent. He felt his own pulse speed up slightly. That trapped feeling was creeping back in.

“Hey,” said Stiles tentatively. Jackson managed to nod an acknowledgement.

There was a tense moment where no one seemed to know what to do or say. Cora and Stiles were both sitting at the tall table, looking over at him while he stood awkwardly in the doorway. Jackson shut the door behind himself and took a few steps into the room, at which point Cora apparently decided that the best course of action was to ignore the awkwardness and continue the conversation she’d been having with Stiles.

“There’s something different about him now,” she said. “He wasn’t like this when I knew him.”

Jackson could feel Stiles’ eyes on him as he walked over to to the couch, even though he was speaking to Cora.

“What was he like?” said Stiles.

The sound of footsteps on the metal stairs made Jackson jump. He hadn’t realized there was someone else in the loft. As soon as he saw Peter, Jackson’s stomach twisted in a knot of anxiety that intensified the trapped feeling. He changed course as subtly as he could, so instead of sitting on the couch (as he had intended), he stood between the table and the window, leaning on the wooden post near Cora. There was no way Jackson could leave now without making things even more awkward; all he could do was try to avoid confrontation.

“A lot like Scott, actually. A lot like most teenagers,” said Peter. When he noticed Jackson, he smiled in the way that had always made Jackson uneasy, even before the revelation of their shared DNA. “Jackson. How nice of you to drop by.”

Again, Jackson only gave a nod of acknowledgement. If Jackson had very little to say to Stiles, he had nothing to say to Peter. Stiles’ eyes were on Jackson again, but he determinedly avoided them.

“So what happened?” said Stiles to Peter. “What changed him?”

“Well, the same thing that changes a lot of young men: a girl.”

Stiles scoffed. “You’re telling me some girl broke his little heart? That’s why Derek is the way he is?”

“Do you remember Derek before he was an alpha had blue eyes?” Peter said to Cora, who nodded, and then turned to Stiles. “Do you know why some wolves have blue eyes?”

Jackson’s awkwardness was abruptly replaced by a spark of curiosity. Jackson’s wolf form had blue eyes. Everyone in that room probably knew it, but Stiles and Cora had to make it more awkward by glancing toward him for a moment before turning their attention back to Peter.

“I always thought it was like a genetic thing,” said Stiles.

“If you want to know what changed Derek,” said Peter, “you need to know what changed the color of his eyes.”

Now that he had everyone’s attention, Peter made himself comfortable on the couch, lounging there as he launched into a long, involved story of a teenaged Derek falling in love with a human girl in the Nineties. Threaded through it was a side story of other wolf packs coming to Beacon Hills to meet and discuss issues with the hunters. This part was a lot more interesting to Jackson, who still didn’t know much at all about how werewolf packs were supposed to work except the fact that Derek was doing it wrong.

“Man, you guys really take that revenge thing to like a whole new level, don’t you?” said Stiles after Peter related how the alpha werewolf Ennis had declared war on the Argents for killing one of his betas.

“It’s not just revenge,” insisted Cora. “Losing a member of your pack isn’t like losing family. It’s like you lose a limb.”

_Like you lose a limb._

That was exactly what it felt like, Jackson realized. When Boyd had been killed, it was like a part of Jackson he hadn't even known was there had been suddenly and violently cut away. Again, Jackson wondered how much worse it must feel for Cora--and hell, Isaac and Derek--who had known Boyd as a friend, too. Maybe Jackson had gotten off easy. For once.

The story got harder for Jackson to listen to as Peter continued. As soon as he mentioned the idea of giving the girl the Bite, Jackson had a sinking feeling he knew how the story would end.

“So did she turn?” said Cora, though her tone suggested that she had already come to the same conclusion as Jackson.

“She should have. Most of the time the Bite takes.” Peter frowned. “Most of the time.”

Stiles’ face was grave. “When you offered it to me, you said, ‘If it doesn’t kill you...’”

Jackson glanced up at Stiles, surprised. Peter had offered him the Bite--the thing Jackson had basically had to beg Derek for--and Stiles had turned it down? Why the hell would he ever do that?

“ _If_ ,” said Peter. “It didn’t matter that she was young and strong. Some people just aren’t made for this. She fought. She struggled desperately, trying to survive.”

The scene played itself out in Jackson’s head. A girl even younger than him, body screaming with pain like Stiles’ had been, that all-too-familiar black liquid leaking from her nose and ears and mouth. Jackson was struck, then, by the memory of Derek finding him in the bathroom that day after the Bite. The look of haunted recognition on his face when he saw Jackson.

_What is it? What’s happening?_

_Your body’s fighting the Bite._

_What does it mean? What does it mean?_

It turned out Jackson was lucky. _Lucky_. To still be alive.

“I remember taking her body from his arms,” said Peter. “To the woods, to a place where I knew that it would be found. Another in a long line of Beacon Hills animal attacks.”

Cora looked completely stricken. “What about Derek?”

“Taking an innocent life takes something from you as well,” said Peter. “A bit of your soul. A darkening. Dimming the once brilliant gold yellow to a cold, steel blue.”

His eyes glowed: not the red that he’d had as an alpha, but blue. The same blue Jackson had seen in his mirror. Jackson’s stomach dropped.

Peter stared at Jackson with those sickeningly familiar eyes and said, “Like ours.”

Stiles and Cora both turned toward Jackson, too. There was pity in Stiles’ eyes and surprise in Cora’s. Maybe no one had told her about the Kanima saga. Jackson definitely would’ve been fine with it never coming up again. If it had been up to him, she would never have known anything about his life before Derek’s pack. But it was too late for that now.

Jackson couldn’t stand this. Not from two people whose opinions had come to matter so much to him. He couldn’t tolerate pity, and he was afraid that Cora would judge him and feel something worse than that.

He wasn’t going to wait around to find out. Without another word, Jackson headed for the door. No one spoke when he left, and he determinedly didn’t listen to hear if they said anything after he was gone. He didn’t want to know.

For the second time in two days, Jackson fled the loft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: Before and during Season 3, Episode 8. Hence all the "borrowing" (direct quoting) of pieces of dialogue from Peter's story scene.
> 
> I'm sorry I took so long to update! Things have been kind of crazy around here. Big life changes! Good ones, but still very time-consuming and often stressful, which means not a lot of time or energy for fic-writing. BUT I've got most of the next chapter written as well, so you can expect it next week. Woo!
> 
> In the meantime, you might also consider (if you are so inclined) checking out the first chapter of a Jackson/Isaac fic that I'm co-writing with the very talented [Savannah_Clover](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Savannah_Clover). I'm really proud of this project and am very excited to see what people think of it. It's called _The Strength of the Wolf_ and it can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3703403).
> 
> Thanks to [Ismene_Jane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ismene_Jane) for being a wonderful beta, and to all of you for reading!


	22. Ferocity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: FEROCITY

STILES

“Well, that could’ve gone better,” said Stiles, glaring at Peter. “Did you really have to bring him into it?”

“I was only telling the truth,” said Peter. “I thought he’d want to know.”

“Unlike _you_ ,” Stiles spat, “Jackson didn’t kill people on purpose. Matt was controlling him.”

“This impassioned defense coming from the same boy who was prepared to kill Jackson if necessary only a few short months ago,” said Peter lightly. “Amazing what sex can do. Or is it more than that?”

Stiles’ face flushed in spite of himself. Peter had no right to talk about him and Jackson. Whatever was going on between them, it was none of this psycho’s business. A spark of anger flickered in Stiles’ chest, stronger than was rational. A little growl escaped him, which made Peter laugh. Stiles had almost forgotten the life-altering (almost life- _ending_ , actually) change he’d just undergone.

“Adorable,” said Peter. “Bitten wolves are fascinating, aren’t they?”

Another growl rumbled in Stiles’ throat, and Cora stepped between him and Peter.

“Calm down,” said Cora, voice authoritative. It distracted the angry wolf in Stiles, but not enough to make the wolf back down. Stiles’ eyes felt funny.

“Gold,” observed Peter, smiling. “It looks good on you. Complements your complexion.”

Stiles snarled and took a step forward, but Cora pushed him back.

“Stiles!” she said, gripping his shoulders firmly. She was surprisingly strong, but there was a growing strength in Stiles that was struggling to match hers. “Stop!”

Cora’s eyes were glowing, too, and that, combined with the firmness of her tone, finally reined in Stiles’ wolf. He was still furious with Peter, but the urge to physically attack him was (mostly) gone.

“You’re going to leave,” said Stiles to Peter, keeping his voice calm and even. “Now.”

“Am I?” said Peter. He cocked his head to the side.

“Yes,” said Stiles. Cora was watching him warily, but he didn’t move. He didn’t want to give Peter the satisfaction of getting Stiles worked up again.

Peter regarded Stiles for a long moment, then shrugged. “All right. I’ll leave you in my niece’s capable hands.”

No one said another word until Peter was gone. Almost unconsciously, Stiles used his new super hearing to listen to Peter take the elevator to the ground floor, walk to his car, get in, and drive away.

He took a deep breath and let it out.

“You’re going to need to work on your control,” said Cora.

“No shit,” said Stiles, trying to smile and not quite succeeding.

“I’m sorry,” said Cora after a pause. “About what happened to you.”

Stiles shrugged, like it wasn’t really a big deal. “I was being an idiot. Like, a _gigantic_ idiot. I don’t know what I thought I was doing.”

“It was the most idiotic thing I’ve ever seen,” agreed Cora. “Still. I can tell you never wanted the Bite.”

She was definitely right on that one. Stiles didn’t want this. He really, _really_ didn’t want this. But there was nothing he could do about it now.

“At least I’m not dead,” said Stiles. He flopped down heavily on the couch. To his surprise, Cora joined him.

“He was so scared,” she said softly.

Stiles felt that same pang in his stomach that he’d felt the day before, when Scott had told him about Jackson taking his pain.

 _He gives more of a shit about you than you think_.

“Jackson says it’s complicated between you two,” said Cora. “Why?”

Stiles shrugged. “Lots of reasons, I guess. We have a… _history_. Which basically means that he was an asshole to me for most of my life and dated my dream girl and treated her like shit. He’s still kind of an asshole to me, actually.”

“But you guys have sex?”

“We fuck,” Stiles said matter-of-factly, because there was no point in making it sound more glamorous than it was. “He comes over, we fuck, we clean up, he leaves.”

Cora eyed him skeptically. “That doesn’t sound very complicated.”

“He doesn’t want people to know,” said Stiles. “Which I get. Popular jock getting screwed by spazzy nerd? Even if I weren’t a dude it’d probably be social suicide for him.”

“High school is so weird,” said Cora.

Stiles sighed and rubbed at his face. On top of everything else that was happening, things _had_ to get messier with Jackson, didn’t they? He couldn’t just have that one thing in his life to keep him sane.

“I wish I knew…” he started, trying to figure out how he wanted to phrase the question he’d been wondering about for a while. “What’s he really like?”

Cora arched an eyebrow at him. “What do you mean?”

“Like…” Stiles took a deep breath, then let it out. “Okay, so there’s this way that he is with me sometimes that’s totally different than how he usually acts. But I’ve seen him with you, and I dunno. He just seems…” Stiles’ fingers fidgeted while he grasped for the right words. “Happy? I guess? Or as happy as Jackson can get. More relaxed, maybe.”

“I’m pack,” said Cora simply. “You’re important to him, but you’re not pack.”

Stiles chewed on his lower lip, at war with himself over whether to keep treating Cora like she was his friggin’ therapist. But there was literally no one else he could talk to about this, and the closer he got to Jackson, the more it gnawed at him.

“I don’t think he wants me to be ‘important’ to him,” said Stiles. “It’s always been chemistry and beta stuff. Like it’s not really _him_ who wants it, just this part of him that he doesn’t want people to know is there. But then… Then he does shit like the other night. What the hell was that? What am I supposed to do with that? And then he just _left_ when I woke up, like he was ashamed of the whole thing, and then today it was like I wasn’t even in the room with him. What the fuck?”

Cora, who had been listening quietly, gave Stiles a very Hale-esque eye-roll.

“He likes you, dumbshit. He’s just scared.”

“We’re all fucking scared,” muttered Stiles, determinedly ignoring the first part of her answer because a) he didn’t believe it, and b) letting himself believe it would make things even more complicated.

“Look,” said Cora, clearly starting to lose her patience. “It’s been made pretty fucking clear recently that life is short. You want him? Show him. Stop being a whiny little bitch about it.”

“You should be a life coach,” said Stiles, deadpan. “You’re very inspirational. I mean it.”

“Go home,” said Cora. “And find an anchor. Get someone to help you with control as soon as possible. Looks like you’ll need it.”

Stiles did go home, then, and spent a decent amount of time trying to come up with an anchor. He thought about his dad or maybe Lydia, but he didn’t think it was a very good idea to choose a person as an anchor. What if something happened to them? What if the way he felt about them changed? But he couldn’t think of an alternative. There was nothing else important or meaningful enough in his life to ground him besides people. He decided to keep thinking about it.

The whole situation was beyond frustrating. Stiles had been pretty sure that control wouldn’t be a huge issue for him as a werewolf. After all, he’d taught Scott how to do it when he was just a human who’d done some cursory internet research on lycanthropy, right? And he’d learned to talk himself down from panic attacks. How much different could it be?

But he’d had no experience that could compare to what it was like to have something feral inside you. The way Stiles had snapped at Peter earlier and the growing feeling of agitation that he couldn’t seem to ease were Very Bad Signs. Who would’ve thought that a hyperactive and easily distracted human wouldn’t make for a calm, collected werewolf?

Even without his natural inability to focus (and Stiles had a sneaking suspicion that his supernatural metabolism would not mix well with his meds), there was more than enough going on right now to agitate Stiles. Aside from all the pain and death (which was pretty much par for the course at this point), now things were even more complicated with Jackson. Like it hadn’t already been confusing enough, Stiles had to go and get himself almost-killed and introduce _feelings_ into the mix.

Stiles had accepted the fact that sleeping with Jackson and the whole dominant-submissive dynamic would inevitably create a bond between them. He’d been dealing with that and had decided it was worth it. But the other night had been different. No sex, no dominance. Just Jackson being there for Stiles when Stiles had needed someone. A glimpse of a side of Jackson that Stiles had never seen before.

Now he could only hope that he’d still get to see the version of Jackson he was used to. Since Stiles had been bitten, Jackson had barely looked at him and had spoken to him even less. Stiles really needed him to get over that, and fast. Sleeping with Jackson had become a very important part of Stiles’ life. It grounded him, calmed him, made him feel in control. And he needed that sense of control now more than ever.

It was past Stiles’ (very loosely-defined) bedtime. He had school the next day, and even werewolves needed to sleep sometimes. But when he tried to lie down, he was even more fidgety than usual. He tossed and turned in his bed, anxious energy humming beneath his skin, body itching to move.

Stiles felt the power of his wolf struggling to break free, and it wasn’t out of anger this time. Right now it was hunger. Right now he _wanted_. He and the wolf inside him both wanted the same thing.

_You want him? Show him._

He was out the window without another thought.

* * *

 

JACKSON

It was nearly midnight when Jackson noticed the sound of leaves rustling outside his bedroom window, then he heard a pulse and breathing. He tensed. If it was someone from his pack, they’d call or text or something first, right? Given the current state of affairs in Beacon Hills, unexpected late-night visitors weren’t likely to be friendly.

A few seconds later there was a quiet knocking on the glass. Jackson went cautiously to the window and peeked through it. He was met by a familiar face that set his heart racing. Stiles. Jackson let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He unlocked the window and moved out of the way so Stiles could come in. (What else could he do--tell him to fuck off?)

“Hey,” said Jackson, because he still had no fucking clue what to say to Stiles.

“Hey.” Stiles hopped down into the room and closed and locked the window behind him. “Figured I’d see what this whole climbing-through-windows-at-night thing feels like from the other side.”

Jackson was taken aback by now _normal_ Stiles looked. Yesterday he’d still looked a little sick, and earlier today he’d been mostly subdued and serious (by Stiles standards). But now he was energetic and smiling. Like nothing major had happened in the last few days. If his scent hadn’t changed slightly, Jackson wouldn’t have been sure anything was different.

“It’s late,” said Jackson. He wasn’t sure if he meant it to mean Stiles should leave or just as a lame statement of fact.

Since Stiles had already made himself comfortable in Jackson’s desk chair, it seemed unlikely that he’d taken it to mean the former. Jackson was starting to experience that trapped feeling he’d felt at the loft again. He still didn’t know how to behave or what to say around Stiles, and now there was nowhere to run.

“Couldn’t sleep,” said Stiles. “Way too much energy. I don’t think Adderall works on me anymore, so that’s gonna be fun at school. Girl-Derek says I need to start control lessons, like, right now, but Derek’s still AWOL and I might flip my shit if I have to see Peter’s smug smirk any time soon. Nice room, by the way.”

Jackson was confused for a second before he remembered that Stiles had never been inside his house before. They’d always fooled around at Stiles’ place. This was the first time Stiles had ever been in Jackson’s space before, and it didn’t help with the trapped feeling.

“What about McCall?” said Jackson, still marveling at how lively Stiles was for a guy who had been on the brink of death less than forty-eight hours ago. His eyes were roaming around Jackson’s room with interest, taking in the various posters, trophies, and other decorations.

“I kinda get the feeling that Isaac needs him right now.” Stiles’ eyes stopped moving for a moment while a shadow flickered across his face. “Plus he was awful at this when he started. Besides, you owe me since I helped you by hitting you with a baseball bat and all.”

“It didn’t really hurt,” said Jackson.

Stiles smirked as he idly played with a baseball that had been sitting on Jackson’s desk. “Got you pissed off enough, though.”

“It doesn’t take much for you to piss me off, Stilinski.”

“Are you gonna help me or not?” Stiles was now tossing the ball up into the air with one hand and catching it with the other, over and over.

Jackson sighed deeply. “What, you want me to hit you?”

Stiles laughed at that. “Dude, I’ve spent like half my life learning to roll with the punches, literally and figuratively. I don’t think pissing me off is what’s gonna make me wolf out.”

“Okay,” said Jackson, “so what is?”

Stiles didn’t answer right away. He caught the ball one last time and set it down on the desk, suddenly calm. Then he looked up and fixed his gaze steadily on Jackson, and Jackson felt strangely vulnerable. Like there was a predator in the room. He realized belatedly that it was because there _was_.

For the first time, Jackson saw Stiles’ eyes glow.

“You. Obviously.”

It took Stiles maybe two seconds to cross the room and shove Jackson down onto his bed. Jackson’s legs were still hanging over the edge from the knees down, but Stiles was straddling his hips without bothering to find a more comfortable position. Once Stiles’ mouth was at Jackson’s neck, though, Jackson found it hard to care. Stiles’ hands gripped Jackson’s wrists, and this time Stiles really did have him pinned.

“I get it now,” said Stiles.

“Hmn?” asked Jackson, distracted.

“What you said before. ‘I can’t _think_. You smell too fucking good,’” Stiles whispered Jackson’s own words from months ago against Jackson’s ear. The heat of his breath made Jackson shiver.

Jackson groaned. “Asshole.”

Stiles nosed behind Jackson’s ear and breathed deeply. “This is _so_ worth how gross the dumpster by the loft smelled today.”

When Stiles pulled back to look at Jackson, they locked eyes. Jackson could feel his eyes glowing blue, but Stiles’ were a vivid gold, warm and bright. They reminded Jackson of what Peter had told them; why his own were different. He looked away.

“Hey,” said Stiles. He nudged Jackson’s chin up firmly and forced him to look at Stiles again. “Don’t hide your eyes from me. Ever.” Jackson understood from his tone that it was a command. “They’re really fucking hot.”

A pang of desire hit Jackson’s gut, but when he looked back up at Stiles he remembered what he was supposed to be doing. Stiles’ eyes weren’t the only werewolf trait that was surfacing now.

“Teeth,” Jackson warned.

Stiles stopped to run his tongue along his own canines to feel their sharpness. “Hunh. Weird.” He shrugged and moved to get at Jackson’s neck with his mouth again.

“Stiles. You’re going to _bite_ me.”

Stiles wasn’t listening. Now his nails were sharp. Jackson could feel the tips pressing into his wrists.

“ _Claws_ ,” said Jackson, struggling to get his wrists free.

“You’ll heal,” said Stiles dismissively. His teeth were sliding along Jackson’s neck, just lightly enough not to break the skin. It felt new and strange and good in a primal way. Jackson wasn’t happy that he had to stop it, but there wasn’t really another option. He got one of his arms free and shoved at Stiles’ chest, pushing him back up to a sitting position. Stiles growled down at Jackson in annoyance, eyes glowing brightly.

“Here’s _your_ mantra,” said Jackson. “Not everyone heals.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. It looked very strange when they were gold.

“Pretend I’m human,” said Jackson.

“But you’re not,” protested Stiles. “That’s what makes you _fun_.”

“Well if I was, I’d be bleeding. Not everyone heals,” Jackson repeated. “Say it.”

“Not everyone heals,” mimicked Stiles. He looked antsy and frustrated.

“Now breathe,” said Jackson, trying to remember the basic control techniques Derek had taught him before London. Stiles’ pulse was racing and his breathing was shallow, erratic.

“I’m not usually the one getting told what to do,” Stiles said in a suggestive tone.

Jackson ignored it. “Do you have an anchor?”

“Kind of,” said Stiles.

“Concentrate on it and breathe,” said Jackson. “Slowly.”

Stiles made an annoyed sound, but he closed his eyes and did as he was told. Jackson watched him carefully until his eyes opened again. They were brown.

“Good,” said Jackson.

“Awesome,” said Stiles. He leaned down again, body covering Jackson’s, and kissed him. Jackson relaxed against the bed and kissed him back enthusiastically until he felt sharp teeth nip at his bottom lip and tasted blood. He pushed Stiles away again.

“You’re no fun,” said Stiles. He was glowering down at Jackson with glowing eyes again.

“And you look really stupid with facial hair,” said Jackson. It was true; Stiles’ ears were growing pointed and the wolf hair was creeping down across his cheeks. It didn’t suit him.

Stiles felt his own ears and face with clawed hands and grumbled. “This is the worst.”

“Breathe,” insisted Jackson. He watched Stiles close his eyes and breathe evenly until he looked human again.

“Better?” asked brown-eyed Stiles.

“For now.”

Stiles took this as permission to resume kissing Jackson, which Jackson allowed until his lip was bleeding again. Jackson pushed him away.

“You really suck at this,” said Jackson.

“You _wish_ I sucked.” Stiles ground his hips down into Jackson’s and grinned wickedly when Jackson’s eyes closed in pleasure. “See, you want me.”

Jackson glared up at Stiles. It would’ve been a _lot_ easier to just beat the crap out of him rather than endure this.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Jackson breathlessly.

Stiles shook his head, wide pupils ringed by gold. “It’s the _only_ thing that matters.”

The submissive part of Jackson was threatening to surface. He wanted to close his eyes, to surrender. Maybe if he didn’t fight then Stiles’ wolf would calm down. It would be so easy, feel so good…

“No,” said Jackson when Stiles, still gold-eyed, tried to kiss him again.

The biggest difference between human Stiles and the newly-made werewolf Stiles was that Jackson’s objection didn’t make Stiles stop immediately. Having been denied a kiss, Stiles went for Jackson’s neck. Jackson hissed when Stiles’s teeth cut into his skin.

“ _No_ ,” repeated Jackson. But Stiles ignored him. Jackson caught Stiles’ wrists in his hands and pushed himself up so that they rolled over on the bed and Jackson ended up pinning Stiles. Stiles gave Jackson a playful, gold-eyed smile with bloodstained lips.

Jackson shifted his body so he could pin both of Stiles’ wrists in one hand and brought the other one to his own neck. His fingers came away bloody.

It wasn’t really Stiles’ fault. It was the new wolf. Jackson knew that. Yes, a part of Jackson wanted this. Yes, he’d heal from Stiles’ bites and scratches. But Stiles had made Jackson swear: _Don’t ever let me do anything to you that you don’t really want._ And this wasn’t how Jackson wanted it. It wasn’t how Stiles would’ve wanted it, either. Not as a human, anyway.

“Not everyone heals, jackass,” said Jackson. He wiped his bloody fingers off on Stiles’ shirt to reinforce his point. “Get your shit together.”

Stiles frowned. “Not everyone heals,” he repeated sullenly. He relaxed beneath Jackson and closed his eyes. Jackson listened to him murmur it to himself over and over again between careful, steady breaths: “Not everyone heals. Not everyone heals. Not everyone…”

When Stiles opened his eyes again, they were soft and brown and familiar.

“I’m awful at this, huh?” said Stiles with a rueful smile.

“Really fucking awful,” agreed Jackson. He tried to keep his tone light, but Stiles’ smile was already fading. He was now staring determinedly at a point on the ceiling above Jackson’s shoulder.

“I think maybe I shouldn’t be home alone with my dad for a while,” said Stiles quietly.

Jackson didn’t know what to say to that. Stiles was right. If he was this dangerous to another werewolf, only an idiot would leave him alone with a human.

“I’m gonna ask Scott to stay over.” Stiles sniffed, and Jackson realized with a sinking feeling that Stiles was trying hard not to cry. The wolf in Jackson could sense Stiles’ distress beyond pulse and breath.

Jackson moved off of Stiles and sat next to him on his bed, feeling extremely awkward and pretty much useless.

Silence fell between them for a few excruciating minutes, wherein Stiles wiped furiously at his eyes and Jackson politely pretended he couldn’t hear the shallowness of Stiles’s breathing or the frantic pace of his heart or every little sniffle and pained sound he emitted.

Finally, Stiles crawled off the bed and stood. “I should go.”

Jackson nodded. “Yeah, it’s late.”

“Yeah.” Stiles was looking around the room like maybe he was forgetting something, but he hadn’t brought a coat or anything. He was just… lost.

“Here,” said Jackson. Stiles looked over at him as Jackson reached for a nearby shirt he’d taken off earlier. He tossed it to Stiles, who caught it deftly and gave Jackson a confused look. “Get used to the scent. It’ll help.”

Experimentally, Stiles brought Jackson’s shirt to his nose. When he sniffed it, his eyes flashed gold. Nothing beyond that, though.

“Thanks.”

“I hate that shirt anyway,” said Jackson with a slight smile.

Stiles didn’t smile back, though. He just nodded absently and went to the window.

“See you later,” said Jackson.

“Yeah,” said Stiles again. Then he was gone.

After Stiles was out of earshot (by werewolf standards), Jackson found the shirt Stiles had given him. He pressed it to his face and inhaled the lingering scent of human Stiles--a scent that would eventually fade from all of Stiles’ clothes and his room and his stupid Jeep, and be replaced by a slightly different one. There was an ache in Jackson that felt like loss, like grief for Stiles. For Stiles, who had turned down the Bite, who could’ve been killed by it.

Stiles was alive, but he could never be human again. Being human, holding his own in a group of werewolves and hunters and whatever the hell Lydia was: that was what had made Stiles special. The one natural thing in a supernatural world. Stiles with his fucking baseball bat against teeth and claws and arrows and knives and guns.

_Stiles is human._

Jackson’s mantra wasn’t true anymore. _That_ Stiles was dead now. And if Jackson ever saw that alpha bitch again, he’d avenge him.

* * *

DEREK

Coming back to his human self hurt. A lot. 

Derek woke curled up in a bed of moss at the foot of a large tree. He smelled of earth and faintly of blood; there were little trails of it on his arms from where he’d gotten scratched by trees while running. The scratches had healed, but had left the blood behind.

His chest ached with the overwhelming pain of loss that he’d escaped for far too brief a time. He immediately yearned to lose his human side again. He wanted to be the wolf forever. He wanted to run and howl and hide himself safely away in a den where no one and nothing could hurt him ever again.

But if he did that, if he succumbed to the pain and lost himself in his animal side, he would be alone. The wolf in him knew that wasn’t right. It had forced him to wake up, making him remember that he was an alpha, that he had a pack to look after. His remaining betas needed him, and there was a newly-made wolf who needed guidance.

They were in danger because of him. They were suffering because of him. He needed to protect them, to comfort them. He needed to stop running.

He needed to go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: Between Season 3, Episodes 8 and 9.
> 
> Check it out! Only a week between posts! I wish I could say I can keep up this schedule, but it seems unlikely. I will do my best, however, to limit long hiatuses in the future! The next chapter is definitely in the works, but there's still a lot to be done.
> 
> If you haven't done so already, I would love for you to check out the Jackson/Isaac fic that I'm co-writing with the very talented [Savannah_Clover](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Savannah_Clover). We've just posted the second chapter! It's called _The Strength of the Wolf_ and it can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3703403). It will be updating weekly at least for the next several weeks :D
> 
> As always, thanks to [Ismene_Jane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ismene_Jane) for being a wonderful beta, and to all of you for reading!


	23. Humanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: HUMANITY

STILES

Stiles started crying in earnest when he was halfway back to his house. It occurred to him when he saw his dad’s car in the driveway that he couldn’t go inside. Even if he climbed back in through the window so his dad wouldn’t know he’d been gone, there was still the issue of being in the house alone with him (and all the scary werewolf-y things that Stiles could do to him).

Instead, he went to the place that was almost a second home. From behind the wheel of his stationary Jeep, Stiles pulled out his phone with trembling fingers and painstakingly typed out a text:

Stiles: You awake?

The thirty-second pause between sending the text and receiving a response were torture. Stiles didn’t have a Plan B.

Scott: Yea whats up  
Stiles: Today sucks  
Stiles: Can you come over  
Scott: Absolutely  
Scott: See you in a few  
Stiles: Btw sitting in jeep. Will explain later

Stiles’s hands were shaking even harder when he put the phone down on the dashboard. He wanted to pull himself together before Scott showed up, but it just got worse. Soon his crying had turned to sobbing, until he was curled in on himself, knees drawn up to his chest and shins pressed against the steering wheel, a blubbering wreck.

His senses were so overwhelmed by his own outburst that he didn’t hear Scott’s footsteps approaching the Jeep. Stiles jumped when the passenger side door opened.

“Stiles?” Scott had clearly become alarmed before he’d even reached the driveway. Werewolf hearing and all that. “What’s wrong?”

“I-I can’t,” Stiles choked out as soon as Scott shut the door behind him. “I can’t do this, Scotty. I’m not supposed to be a werewolf. That’s for guys like you and Derek and Isaac a-and Jackson. I’m supposed to be a scrawny, defenseless human.”

“Whoa, hey,” said Scott. “What happened?” Scott sniffed the air a few times and then stared down at Stiles’ shirt. “Dude, is that Jackson’s blood?”

“Yeah,” said Stiles, struggling to get his voice steady.

“Is he okay?”

“He’s fine,” said Stiles, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. “No thanks to me. I friggin’ _bit_ him. Apparently Werewolf Stiles likes to act first and make sure everyone’s still got all their vital organs later.”

“Why’d you bite him?” said Scott. “Did he piss you off?”

Stiles flushed and stared determinedly ahead. He knew it was no use; no doubt his pulse gave him away. “No.”

“... _Oh_.” Scott shifted awkwardly. “Right.”

“Yeaaah.”

Scott hesitated before asking, “Is it seriously that bad?”

Stiles snorted. He extricated Jackson’s shirt from the seat and handed it to Scott.

“Dude, smell this.”

Scott took the shirt, held it near his face, and sniffed it. He shrugged when he identified the scent. “This is Jackson’s. So?”

“Watch.”

Stiles closed his eyes, pressed the shirt to his face, and inhaled deeply. A flood of sensation surged through him: desire, frustration, unbearable longing. When he put the shirt down, claws caught in the fabric. His teeth felt strange in his mouth and his eyes burned. He looked up at Scott.

“Holy shit.” Scott gaped at him and snatched the shirt out of Stiles’ reach, just in case. The overreaction would’ve been funny if Stiles weren’t so upset.

It took a minute of intense focus to reign the wolf in. Even with the shirt no longer near his nose, Stiles felt inundated with Jackson’s scent.

“Yeah,” said Stiles once his mouth was fang-free again. “And it’s like fifty times worse in person.”

“Wow,” said Scott, still stunned. “I mean, Allison smells amazing, but… wow.”

“See?” said Stiles. “Werewolf Stiles can’t be trusted. What if something else sets me off like that? What if my dad makes bacon for breakfast and it smells even better than Jackson?”

“It’s hard to know,” said Scott. “I mean, you’ve only been a werewolf for like a day.”

“Two days, but yeah, definitely a newbie.” Stiles sighed and rubbed at his face wearily. He’d stopped crying, but his chest was still tight with fear and guilt. “So I need you to be my shadow, okay? I can’t be alone with anyone who doesn’t have supernatural healing or a crossbow or something. Especially not my dad. You can’t leave me alone with him, Scott. Okay? I’m serious.”

“Okay,” agreed Scott. “Whatever you need.”

“Can you stay tonight? I know it’s last-minute, but--”

“No problem,” said Scott. “I can run home tomorrow before class.”

Stiles gave his best friend a weak smile. “Thanks.”

Scott reached out and gripped Stiles’ shoulder as a gesture of brotherly support, and Stiles had to get out of the Jeep to escape the feels before he started crying again. Scott followed him and they climbed to the second floor of the house and back into his room through the window. Stiles changed into pajamas while Scott stealthily (so as not to wake Stiles’s dad) got his usual bedding and made himself comfortable on the floor. There were dozens of thoughts and fears in Stiles’ head that wanted to pour out, but he couldn’t think of a way to say any of them to Scott. So he didn’t say anything at all.

The silence that fell between them was in stark contrast to the deafening chaos in Stiles’ head.

He had hurt Jackson. Physically injured him. Stiles had promised himself that he would never abuse his power over Jackson, never take Jackson’s submission for granted or force him to do anything he didn’t want to do. Tonight, Jackson had told him “No,” _twice_ , and Stiles hadn’t listened. If Jackson hadn’t been able to physically overpower Stiles…

Guilt and disgust with himself knotted in Stiles’ stomach. He was sick with the thought that something inside him was capable of that. The wolf in Stiles was selfish and reckless. It was an animal, and it was _hungry_. Even now, that intense longing for Jackson was still burning in him beneath the guilt and fear and uncertainty. The wolf was all instinct and impulse and it hadn’t gotten what it wanted.

How long could Stiles fight that hunger before he hurt Jackson again?

* * *

JACKSON 

After the events of last night, Jackson had thought that maybe he should give Stiles some space for a while. Stiles could go talk to Derek or McCall about control and then maybe Stiles could be near Jackson without attacking him. But not only did Jackson severely underestimate Stiles’ new impulse control issues, he also didn’t anticipate his own reactions to them.

School the next day was… a challenge. To some degree, Jackson had always been aware of Stiles’ presence when they were in a room together, but now he was _hyper_ aware. Stiles practically radiated pheromones, to the point where McCall and Lahey clearly noticed it, too. Jackson could feel Stiles’ eyes on him in class and in the hallway all day. The air felt thicker when Stiles was around, and when Jackson went outside at the end of class, it felt like he could finally take a full breath for the first time all day.

...Until he found Stiles leaning against his car.

“Hey,” Jackson said warily.

“Hey,” said Stiles. He seemed just as wary as Jackson was, but more about himself than about Jackson. There was an awkward pause during which Stiles fidgeted and looked anywhere but at Jackson. Then, finally: “I’m sorry about last night.”

Jackson gave an awkward shrug. He didn’t want to talk about last night. Stiles had already made it clear that he hadn’t meant to hurt Jackson. What else was there to say?

“I know.”

“And I’m sorry for being a creeper all friggin’ day.”

Stiles’ embarrassed grimace eased some of the tension between them for a moment, but it was fleeting. “You just… You smell _really_ good, and I have all this energy, and I can’t--”

He cut himself off with a frustrated sound, and when he looked back up at Jackson, his eyes were glowing gold.

It was all Jackson could do not to freeze. The animal hunger in those eyes inspired an intense combination of desire and fear that Jackson didn’t know what to do with. He had never been afraid of Stiles before. Not only had Stiles never been strong enough to actually hurt Jackson, but he’d gone out of his way to make Jackson feel safe. Now there was something in Stiles that had ignored a “No” from Jackson.

Even as Jackson’s inner wolf whined for attention, aching to submit to the wildly unpredictable new beta, Jackson-the-human managed to take control of the situation.

“Jesus, Stiles, are you insane?” he hissed. “There are people here!”

“Can’t help it,” said Stiles. He sounded almost drunk, lids drooping over eyes that were still glowing brightly around wide pupils.

“Then close your fucking eyes,” said Jackson. When Stiles didn’t respond, Jackson reached to cover Stiles’ eyes with his hand. Stiles caught his wrist with alarming speed and tugged Jackson closer to him.

Jackson glared at Stiles and struggled to free his arm. He was _definitely_ not okay with other students seeing him getting too close to Stiles. “I said there are people here, asshole.”

“So?” said Stiles, grip still firm on Jackson’s wrist. Stiles’ grip didn’t hurt, exactly, but it was uncomfortably strong.

“So fuck you,” Jackson growled.

“Right here?” Stiles gave Jackson a filthy smirk.

This was too much. Jackson could deal with Stiles staring at him all day, but like hell was he going to let Stiles out him in the middle of the school parking lot.

“Get in the car,” said Jackson.

“Ja--”

“Let me the fuck go, and get in the _fucking_ car, Stiles.”

There was a long pause during which it seemed like Stiles might ignore him, but then his eyes were brown again, and the fingers around Jackson’s wrist loosened. Stiles went to the passenger side door of Jackson’s car and got in. Jackson got in the driver’s side and started the engine.

“Seatbelt,” he said to Stiles, who was staring blankly out through the windshield. Stiles buckled up without looking at Jackson. Jackson couldn’t decide if this rapid change in behavior was a good sign, or a very bad one. Either way, he couldn’t deal with this on his own.

* * *

DEREK

The tension between the two beta wolves who showed up unexpectedly in Derek’s loft was so strong that it immediately put Derek on edge. Cora stood up from the couch as soon as she saw Jackson, whose posture was radiating wariness and conflict while Stiles’ screamed anxious frustration and excess energy (even more so than usual). As soon as they were through the door, Jackson took several cautious steps away from Stiles, who frowned and kept himself from following with what looked like significant effort. 

Derek moved to stand closer to Cora. “What are you doing here?”

“Jackson made me,” said Stiles at the same time that Jackson said, “Help him.”

“Help him how?” said Derek.

“Didn’t you hear?” said Stiles. “I have control issues. I bit Jackson and everything.”

“You _bit_ him?” said Cora, eyes widening in alarm.

“Pretty fucked up, right?” Stiles’ tone was tinged with bitterness. “Turns out Werewolf Stiles is even kinkier than Regular Stiles. And that’s saying something.”

The alpha wolf in Derek bristled at hearing that his beta had been injured. He unconsciously gave Jackson a once-over with his eyes. Jackson looked fine, but Derek had good reason to be especially protective of his betas now.

“He didn’t mean to,” said Jackson, surprising Derek. Despite his defense of Stiles, however, Jackson’s eyes were still locked on the new beta like a rabbit watches a fox. His pulse was almost as fast as a rabbit’s, too.

“Don’t make excuses for me,” said Stiles, vehemently enough that Jackson flinched.

The degree to which Stiles’ moods were affecting Jackson was worrying, to say the least. Stiles clearly wasn’t happy about it, either. He looked to Derek, conflict and frustration plain in his eyes. “Tell me how to fix this.”

“It’s not that easy,” said Derek. “You know that.”

“I _do_ know,” said Stiles. “But I need it to stop. Like, right now. I can’t be alone with my dad. I can’t--” His eyes darted to Jackson and back. “I can’t be trusted.”

“It’s been less than four days. Even with training, it takes time to--”

Stiles snarled and slammed his hand against the nearest support beam. Luckily, it was strong enough to withstand the force. “We don’t _have_ time!”

Jackson winced and moved closer to Cora in reaction to Stiles’ aggression. When Stiles saw this, his anger immediately died out again.

“I didn’t ask for this,” he said quietly, rubbing at his own hand.

“Well, it’s done, so now you have to deal with it,” said Derek. He wasn’t trying to be cruel, but there was no point in sugar-coating this. The sooner Stiles learned to accept what had happened to him, the sooner he could learn to control it. And Derek had learned time and time again, from a young age, just how important control was.

Stiles met Derek’s eyes, fear and helplessness evident in his posture. “How?”

Derek was torn. The alpha part of him didn’t want Stiles anywhere near his beta. It wanted Derek to tell Stiles to leave, to work on control with Scott or someone else. But though Stiles wasn’t Derek’s beta, he was still Derek’s friend. And the human part of Derek knew that if Derek were as afraid and helpless as Stiles was now, Stiles would do whatever he could to help him.

Derek cursed under his breath. “Call your dad. Tell him you’re staying at a friend’s house tonight or something.”

Stiles heaved a sigh of relief and pulled out his phone.

“You, too, Jackson,” said Derek.

Both Stiles and Jackson said in unison: “What?”

It was risky, but it was the best solution. True, Jackson might be safer at home, but trying to teach Stiles control without a strong trigger nearby might not be as effective. During Isaac’s crash course there had been a full moon, after all. Derek knew that it was kind of a dick move to put Jackson through more stress, but if Jackson and Stiles were going to be at school together all day, they’d have to get used to being in the same room. It would make Jackson safer in the long run, anyway.

“You heard me. Call your parents,” said Derek. “You’re staying here tonight.”

“But--” Jackson started.

“Can you just do what I tell you for once?” Derek snapped, the tension in the room finally getting to him. Then he sighed and added in a softer tone, “Please?”

Reluctantly, Jackson nodded. Great, now Jackson was wary of _two_ werewolves in the room. While the betas made their phone calls, Derek rubbed at his face tiredly. It was going to be a long night.

When all of the alibis were settled, Cora led Jackson over to the couch and sat down with him. She pressed close to Jackson, one arm around his shoulders, keeping him grounded and easing some of his anxiety caused by Stiles’ proximity. Stiles stood across the room, distancing himself from the couch and trying not to look at Jackson too much.

“All right,” said Derek. “First things first. Do you have an anchor?”

Stiles shrugged evasively. “I can’t think of a good one.”

Of course. Of _course_ Stiles had to make this even more difficult. Under different circumstances, it might’ve been funny.

“Well, find one soon,” said Derek, “or this is going to be a lot harder.”

Stiles made an annoyed sound, but nodded his understanding.

“In the meantime, I want to test something.”

“That sounds ominous,” said Stiles.

“Try not to react.”

“Okay, that sounds even more ominous.”

“Just shut up and pay attention,” Derek said irritably.

Derek faced Stiles and closed his eyes for a few seconds. He focused on his anger, calling the wolf forth. When he opened his eyes, he knew they were red. He stood up straight and squared his shoulders, making himself as imposing as possible without transforming. Then he took a few decisive steps toward Stiles.

Stiles’ reaction was instantaneous. His eyes lit up bright gold. Instead of cowering or baring his throat like an omega or an unallied beta would, though, he growled in defiance of Derek’s assertion of dominance and stood his ground.

That answered that question pretty definitively.

“Well, you have an alpha,” said Derek.

“What?” said Stiles, eyes going out. “Who?”

“If you’re lucky, Scott. If you’re not…”

Stiles thought for a moment, then made a disgusted sound and rolled his eyes. “You gotta be kidding me. That Lady Deathstrike wannabe? Bitch tries to kill me and I have to be her friggin’ beta?”

Derek felt a pang of guilt lance through him. If he had just been a better alpha, then none of this would be happening. If he--

“Wait,” interjected Jackson suddenly. “McCall’s an alpha? How the hell--”

His voice drew Stiles’ attention back to Jackson, which immediately shut Jackson up.

“Do you think Kali will come back for him?” said Cora.

“I’d like to see her fucking try.” Stiles’ eyes flashed again.

“Hey, calm down,” said Derek, focusing on the task at hand. “Breathe.”

Stiles closed his eyes and took several slow, deep breaths, but when he opened them again they were glowing even more strongly than before.

“How did that make it _worse_?” said Derek.

“I can smell him from here,” muttered Stiles. His cheeks were pink with embarrassment. Jackson was determinedly looking away from Stiles, skin flushed as well.

Derek swore. “Okay, you guys are going to have to be _very_ careful around each other until Stiles learns to control this.”

“No shit,” said Stiles, eyes still focused on Jackson.

They practiced for an hour, during which Stiles became increasingly angrier and more frustrated and made Jackson’s stress level much higher. After another hour of Derek trying to bait Stiles into losing control and then counseling him through it, Stiles seemed to be improving, so Derek told Jackson to get closer. This set them back to square one.

“How?” asked Stiles desperately halfway through the third hour. The question was for all three of them. “How do you do it? It’s impossible.”

“Practice,” said Derek firmly.

Stiles looked absolutely miserable, exhausted, and afraid. He was becoming closer to the animal inside him rather than pulling away from it. But all Derek could do was push Stiles and hope he would come out on the other side of it. For everyone’s sakes.

“I can’t,” protested Stiles. “Everything hurts. My eyes, my head… I can’t even breathe right.”

“Go get some air,” said Derek, pointing to the balcony. “Five minutes. Then we go again.”

* * *

STILES 

Stiles had wanted to go back to get his Jeep and drive home before school the next day, but Derek had insisted that Stiles was too tired to drive, and had taken him home himself. No one trusted Stiles to be in Jackson’s car again any time soon. Derek idled near Stiles’ house long enough for Stiles to sneak in through his own window and grab a change of clothes so he could pretend he’d just gone to school directly from Scott’s place. All his school stuff was still in his Jeep anyway.

So was Jackson’s shirt. The scent nearly set Stiles off again, and he grabbed his backpack as fast as he could and fled to class.

Stiles spent what little free time he had (outside of class and keeping werewolves from being killed by other werewolves) trying to burn out excess energy from his system so he wouldn’t randomly wolf out when a pen ran out of ink or he couldn’t find his favorite socks or something. The best way he found to exhaust his energy reserves was to run. A lot. Like, miles and miles and miles, as fast as he could, tearing through the nature preserve until his lungs burned and his legs were rubbery.

The problem with trying to burn out his energy, however, was that the difficulty of it made Stiles frustrated, which made him angry. This undid all of the work he’d done to try to keep from getting angry in the first place. The situation wasn’t helped by the fact that Stiles wasn’t just trying to control his wolf in order to keep from attacking people; he was trying to control his ability to interact with other people the way he wanted to. Mostly one other person.

Truth be told, Stiles was afraid. Sex was pretty much the only reason Stiles and Jackson saw each other outside of school (and even at school Jackson tended to avoid him). They’d tried texting and calls before, and that hadn’t gone very well. Stiles hadn’t realized until he couldn’t do it anymore that he didn’t just enjoy sex with Jackson because he liked sex; he enjoyed it because he liked _Jackson_. Sure, the guy was still a grade-A douchebag to most people and was generally unpleasant to be around most of the time, but there was something between them, especially since the night Stiles had been bitten.

Whatever it was, Stiles didn’t want to lose it.

* * *

JACKSON 

Derek told Jackson not to come over that night. Stiles didn’t seem to need Jackson to set him off (though Jackson was the most effective trigger), so there was no reason to put Jackson through the stress of being around Stiles when Stiles was angry. Cora asked Jackson if he wanted her to come over and keep him company, but he said he wanted to be alone. He didn’t want to be pitied or babied.

Still, by the time he was supposed to be in bed, Jackson found himself pacing his room, wondering what was going on with Stiles and worrying in spite of himself. It had been stressful to be at the loft when Stiles was losing control, but at least if Jackson were there he’d know for a fact that everyone was okay. Alone in his house, his entire pack could be dead and Jackson wouldn’t know it.

When Jackson couldn’t take it anymore, he picked up his phone and scrolled down to ‘S’.

Me: Hows it going

To Jackson’s surprise, Stiles responded almost immediately.

Stiles: Derek sent me home  
Stiles: Dads out so i can be alone for once  
Stiles: Kinda tried to bite cora  
Stiles: She wasnt into it

The corner of Jackson’s mouth twitched up.

Me: Guess youre not her type  
Stiles: Sokay shes not mine either 

Jackson frowned, trying to figure out how to respond to that. They both knew the implication was that _Jackson_ was Stiles’ type. But Stiles saved him the trouble.

Stiles: This sucks  
Stiles: A lot

Talk about a massive understatement.

Me: Yeah

A lame response, but what else was Jackson supposed to say?

Stiles: Trying not to fuck you is the worst

Jackson felt his cheeks flush. It had been almost excruciating watching Stiles be so aggressive and knowing that it was due in large part to how badly Stiles wanted Jackson. And as wary as Jackson was about Stiles hurting him, Jackson was still desperate for attention. Stiles smelled just as good as ever, and Stiles’ newfound confidence, even with its dangerousness, was definitely attractive.

Me: You think I like not letting you?

There was a tense pause before Stiles responded. Jackson wasn’t sure what he had expected, but if he’d been hoping for something reassuring, he was severely disappointed.

Stiles: Doesnt matter what you like anymore

Jackson stared down at his phone. It was all he could do not to crush it in his hand or throw it at the wall. He knew Stiles wasn’t trying to be cruel or cold. In fact, Stiles was staying away from Jackson because he didn’t want to hurt him again. But the irrational, insecure, fragile part of Jackson that was usually reassured by Stiles’ attention was starting to become lonely and desperate.

Jackson’s hand shook as he set his phone down on his nightstand. He found Stiles’ shirt and pulled it on over his T-shirt, searching for comfort in Stiles’ scent surrounding him. The first time he’d done this had been after Derek had kicked him out. After his first alpha had rejected him. Now, in a way, he was being rejected by a second one, too. Maybe Jackson deserved this after everything he’d done. Maybe he--

No. No, fuck this. Enough already. Jackson was sick of moping. He was sick of feeling sorry for himself, sick of taking everything lying down. Jackson hadn’t _literally_ died and come back to life just to let other people tell him what to do all the time. He was a beta, not a bitch. He was smart and strong, and he was done with not being there when people needed him. Maybe he couldn’t fix his own fuckups, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t help now.

Jackson took off Stiles’ shirt before grabbing his wallet, phone, and keys. He didn’t need a substitute. He knew where the real thing was.

“What’re you doing here?” said Stiles as Jackson opened the window.

“Breaking in to steal all twenty bucks’ worth of your stuff,” Jackson drawled. “Why do you think I’m here?”

“Derek said we shouldn’t be alone together.” Stiles avoided looking at Jackson. He took a breath, and Jackson saw his eyes pulse gold.

“I can take care of myself,” said Jackson. “Get up.”

“What?” Stiles regarded Jackson warily. “Why?”

“What Derek’s doing isn’t working,” said Jackson.

“I can ask Scott to help,” Stiles protested, “or Isaac.”

Jackson grabbed the front of Stiles’s shirt and hauled him up off the bed. Stiles was too caught off guard to react before Jackson kissed him, insistent and deep. Jackson didn’t let Stiles go until he felt sharp teeth cut into his bottom lip. He ignored the pain; he’d accepted that it was going to happen and he could deal with it. When he pulled away he was staring into bright golden eyes.

“As far as I know, you don’t do that with them,” said Jackson. The way Stiles focused on his mouth when Jackson licked some of the blood off his own lip made a shiver run through Jackson.

“What makes you think I’ll get better at this? Look, I already hurt you again.” Stiles brushed his thumb over the remaining blood on Jackson’s bottom lip, then pulled his hand away like it had been burned.

“You’re smarter than McCall and Lahey and almost as stubborn as Derek, and they can do it.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Thanks? I guess?”

“You’re welcome,” said Jackson. “Quit stalling.”

Jackson slowly backed Stiles up against the nearest wall. It would be a lot easier to keep him at bay this way than if he were lying down, plus less of a chance of property destruction (in theory). Stiles let himself be maneuvered without fighting, but he still looked nervous.

“Don’t move,” said Jackson.

Stiles stared at him blankly. “Jackson, I haven’t been able to stay still since before I was born. My mom used to give me shit all the time about how I was constantly kicking her from the inside.”

“Do you want to get better or not?”

There was a long pause while Stiles considered Jackson’s implicit proposal. He fidgeted anxiously, but his eyes stayed brown.

“Okay,” he said finally.

“Okay,” agreed Jackson.

Jackson rested his hands on Stiles’ upper arms to press him gently against the wall, reminding him not to move as he leaned in to kiss him again. Jackson listened carefully to Stiles’ pulse and breathing as he kept the kiss agonizingly slow. He knew Stiles wasn’t really a fan of slow kisses. Stiles was impatient and passionate, and Jackson liked that about him. But he couldn’t let that part of Stiles break free yet. Jackson could feel the tension in Stiles’ muscles building already as Stiles struggled to remain still, letting Jackson dictate the terms of the kiss. Stiles’ pulse was slightly elevated, but his teeth were still blunt.

Inevitably as the kiss went on, though, Stiles started trying to take control. His hand went for Jackson’s hair, and Jackson pinned his arm back against the wall. The other one tried to grab Jackson’s shirt before he pinned it, too. Stiles made a frustrated sound. Jackson wouldn’t let him deepen the kiss, and when Stiles wouldn’t stop trying, Jackson pulled away.

“Stop,” said Jackson firmly.

“It’s weird,” Stiles complained. “This isn’t… It’s not how we _work_.”

Jackson empathized completely. His submissive human side felt awkward and lost, and his inner wolf was mutinous. Every act of control over Stiles felt like a violation of the natural order of things, and Stiles being passive was just… wrong. But if Jackson needed to contain his anger and violence to control his wolf, then Stiles needed to learn to reign in his dominant impulses.

“You can’t control yourself and me at the same time,” said Jackson. “Not yet.”

“I can’t control _anything_ ,” growled Stiles. His eyes were gold again and his pulse was speeding up. “I’m a friggin’ predator and you’re _dinner_. I can’t just stop wanting what I want! I-I can’t--”

“Hey!” said Jackson sharply, demanding that Stiles focus on him. “You’re not a wolf!”

Stiles shook his head, confused and agitated. Gold eyes avoided Jackson’s.

“You’re not a wolf, Stiles,” repeated Jackson. “You’re not a predator.”

“Bullshit,” said Stiles. “I’m--”

“You want to be human, right? So do it. _Be human_.”

Derek and Cora had always insisted that the werewolf was a fundamental part of who Jackson was now. Jackson had agreed for a long time because it explained away his own anger and violence and pathological need to submit, but he’d come to feel like it was more complicated than that. Derek and Cora had been born werewolves. It was different for them. The wolf’s impulses, instincts, and powers would always be a part of Jackson, but they didn’t have to define who he was. Stiles needed to understand that, too.

“What does that even mean?” said Stiles. “That doesn’t make any fucking sense.”

“Damn it, Stiles, if you can order _my_ wolf around then you can do it to yours! Quit bitching and tell it to back the fuck down.”

Stiles frowned, momentarily cowed by Jackson’s outburst.

“You’re not a wolf, Stiles,” Jackson said more gently. “It’s just in you. You’re still human.” He tapped his knuckles over Stiles’ heart for emphasis. “That’s your fucking anchor.”

“I’m not a wolf,” said Stiles dubiously. But he closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. When he opened them again and looked at Jackson, they were brown. “I’m human.”

Jackson watched Stiles carefully, waiting for him to make the next move.

“I’m human,” Stiles repeated to himself. His pulse began to calm. Slowly, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Jackson’s. The kiss was careful, experimental. After a few seconds, he pulled back slightly and took a few more deep breaths. The next kiss was longer and more confident.

So far so good. Soon Stiles was smiling between kisses, and Jackson found that he couldn’t help but smile slightly, too. The kisses became more heated, and when it seemed that Stiles wasn’t going to wolf out, Jackson started to relax, responding enthusiastically. It was like breathing again after holding his breath for a week.

But as much as he wanted to give in and let Stiles take control, Jackson was leery of letting him have too much, too fast. When Stiles made a hungry kind of growl in his throat, Jackson pulled back.

“No,” he said. And this time, Stiles listened.

“Sorry,” said Stiles. His pupils were wide and his eyes were a little unfocused from lust, but he backed down.

Jackson shook his head. “You’re doing good.”

“How good?” Stiles slid his tongue along the shell of Jackson’s ear and whispered against it, “You gonna let me fuck you?”

“No,” said Jackson, unable to suppress the hot shiver that ran through him. Stiles pulled back and frowned at Jackson, looking devastatingly disappointed, until Jackson clarified: “ _I’m_ going to fuck _you._ ”

Stiles actually groaned in reaction to Jackson’s words.

“Holy _shit_. That is the hottest thing you have ever said.”

“But if you try to go alpha on me, I’ll stop,” Jackson warned.

“Fair enough,” said Stiles, then smirked. “Okay, Whittemore. Show me what you got.”

Jackson cocked his head to the side, assessing Stiles and gathering up his nerve. It had been a while since Jackson had been the one in charge of sex, and even then, Lydia could be pretty damned pushy about it. With Stiles, Jackson had gotten used to being guided through a submissive haze. Now he’d actually have to pay attention.

“Get on your knees,” said Jackson, with as much authority as he could muster. Stiles’ eyes briefly flashed gold, but nothing wolflike beyond that.

“Yes, sir,” said Stiles playfully. Jackson rolled his eyes. The message was clear: Stiles would keep himself from ‘going alpha,’ but that didn’t mean he would just roll over for Jackson, either.

He did drop to his knees, though, and made quick work of Jackson’s fly and boxers. Jackson was already hard just from all the kissing (thanks to the unresolved sexual tension recently), which seemed to make Stiles pretty happy.

Stiles didn’t really need much guidance through this part, though Jackson reined him in a few times with a sharp tug to his hair and a stern “No” or “Watch it” when Stiles got a little overenthusiastic.

Jackson let himself groan Stiles’ name, swear, murmur words of encouragement. For once he was fully aware of what he was saying, and he didn’t fucking care. There was no one to hear him except Stiles, and his pride didn’t seem very important compared with how amazing it felt to have Stiles’ mouth around his cock again.

“Stop,” he gasped after a few minutes.

Stiles reluctantly obeyed. He wiped saliva from his mouth with the back of his arm (which was hotter than it should’ve been) and frowned up at Jackson. “But you didn’t--”

“I said I’m going to fuck you,” said Jackson. “Unless you don’t want me to?”

Stiles practically scrambled to his nightstand to get the lube that Jackson knew he kept there.

“Can you get yourself ready?” said Jackson. His reasoning for this was twofold: First, he’d never actually done this before. Like, he knew in theory how Stiles did it to him, but he hadn’t tried it. Second, he kind of wanted to see Stiles do it.

“You think this is my first rodeo, cowboy?” said Stiles, scoffing.

“Shut up,” said Jackson. While Stiles did follow the order, he did so with a cocky smirk. “Come here.”

Stiles obeyed that as well, so Jackson rewarded him with another kiss. He began undressing Stiles, shirt to socks and everything in between, while Stiles did the same for him (leading to some awkward fumbling, but who the fuck cared?). When they were both naked, Jackson took a moment to let his eyes rake over Stiles’ body. He hadn’t taken nearly enough time to appreciate it before.

“Who’s the predator now?” Stiles teased, making Jackson realize that his own eyes were glowing.

“You like it,” countered Jackson.

“Fuck yeah, I do,” said Stiles. He was shamelessly checking Jackson out, too. Jackson felt his cheeks flush. Stiles gave him a knowing look, but didn’t comment on it. Stiles’ eyes flickered gold again for a split second, but he seemed fine other than that.

“Well?” said Jackson, gesturing toward the lube that Stiles had set on his nightstand during the clothing removal process.

“Bossy,” said Stiles as he picked up the lube and settled himself on the bed. He patted a spot next to him so Jackson would sit.

“Deal with it,” said Jackson.

Stiles wasted no time after that. Jackson watched in fascination as Stiles lied back on the bed and squeezed some of the lube onto his fingers like he’d done it a hundred times before. Jackson couldn’t help but think about how Stiles did the same thing before he fucked Jackson, and then he began to wonder how many times and in what context Stiles had done it to himself. Stiles hadn’t been with anyone else. Had he just done it to himself to see what it was like? Experimenting was a very ‘Stiles thing’ to do. Had he thought about Jackson while he was doing it? Had he--

It wasn’t until Stiles winked at him that Jackson realized he’d been staring.

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” said Stiles.

It was obscene. Jackson’s eyes were locked on Stiles’ hands as Stiles slowly stretched himself out. As usual, Stiles had no reservations about being loud, and soon the sounds he was making, combined with porn-level visuals, had Jackson desperate to fuck him. When Stiles began rocking into his own hand, Jackson gave him another firm “No” and prodded him to turn over so that he was on all fours. Jackson settled in behind him and braced a hand on the small of Stiles’ back.

“Heh,” said Stiles, handing Jackson the lube. “Doggy style.”

Jackson was too focused on the prospect of imminent sex to give Stiles shit for that comment. He compromised by rolling his eyes and generously applying lube to himself. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to want to stop once he started.

“Take your time,” drawled Stiles. He wiggled his ass for emphasis until Jackson gripped his hip to hold him still.

It took some concentration and some careful positioning, but once Jackson slid home, he nearly saw stars. Stiles was tight and hot and basically every other word that Stiles usually used to describe Jackson when they were fucking.

“Huhn,” said Stiles. His tone was casual, but Jackson could hear his pulse rabbiting with excitement. “So that’s what that feels like.”

“Do you ever shut up?” said Jackson. Before Stiles could get out a smart answer, Jackson started moving, and Stiles let out a very satisfying sound of surprised pleasure. An answering groan escaped Jackson.

It was weird being on top with Stiles. Weird, but _fantastic_. Jackson had thought that it would basically feel like fucking a girl (every girl he’d been with had definitely not been into anal), but he’d been wrong. The pressure and sources of friction were in different places. It wasn’t better than with a girl, just different. Different and awesome. Jackson could definitely get used to this. It had been a long time since he’d been the one doing the fucking. He hadn’t felt deprived during that time, but still...

Another groan from Stiles interrupted Jackson’s reverie. Stiles was even louder than usual. So much so, in fact, that Jackson was kind of worried the neighbors would hear. He pressed one palm over Stiles’ mouth, but Stiles snapped at Jackson’s hand with his (thankfully blunt) teeth.

“ _Fuck_ , that’s good,” Stiles gasped when Jackson got in a particularly good thrust. “Why haven’t--Nn!--haven’t we done this before?”

“Hey, you were the one calling the shots,” said Jackson. It was a struggle to keep his voice steady.

“I can totally see why you love this so much.” Stiles rolled his hips back into Jackson’s impatiently. “Harder.”

Jackson gripped Stiles’ hips to keep him from moving. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

“C’mon,” said Stiles pitifully. “Please?”

Jackson huffed out a laugh. “‘Please,’ huh? That’s new.”

“Shut up and fuck me,” Stiles demanded. His voice had an edge of desperation in it. “Come on, Jackson, make me love getting fucked as much as you love it.”

Jackson shivered. He’d forgotten how much Stiles’ dirty talk could affect him. He didn’t care if Stiles was baiting him; he thrust into him harder, faster, savoring every gasp and moan.

“Show me you--” Stiles groaned when Jackson hit a particular angle. “Show me you can give it as hard as you take it.”

Stiles was panting, fingers clutching at the sheets. Jackson slammed into him in an effort to get him to shut up, to lose some measure of coherence. He did it again and again, until all Stiles could say was Jackson’s name, a handful of swear words, and a few variations on “Yes.”

After one last, very enthusiastic “Fuck yes, Jackson!” from Stiles, Jackson came. And it was _good_. It was so much different from the hazy, blissful pleasure he got when Stiles was in control, but Jackson definitely had no complaints. He took a few deep breaths and pressed his forehead against Stiles’ back while he came down from it.

“That was _awesome_ ,” said Stiles. Jackson could hear the giddy grin in his voice. After Jackson pulled out, Stiles turned so he could ruffle Jackson’s sweaty hair. “Good job.”

Jackson lowered his eyes, feeling that surge of pride that came with Stiles’ praise. Even when Jackson was on top, there was still no mistaking who was in charge.

Stiles flashed Jackson a satisfied smile and stretched his limbs experimentally. “Okay, being a werewolf is bullshit except for maybe the healing. No wonder you can take it so hard!”

Jackson shot Stiles an annoyed look, but he was too tired and too sated to be truly irritated. He took a moment to admire (as subtly as he could) the beautiful mess he’d made of Stiles.

“Welcome back,” said Jackson. “Didn’t even claw up your sheets.”

“Thanks,” said Stiles. “Did you like bossing me around?”

“No,” Jackson half-lied. “So you better keep your shit together because I’m not doing that again.”

Stiles arched an eyebrow at him. “What if I tell you to?”

Jackson pointedly avoided answering. “Do you need me to, uh…?”

“Nah, we’re good,” said Stiles, gesturing to the mess on his sheets. Jackson couldn’t help but feel a little proud of making Stiles come like that. Not bad for a first try.

They took their first shower together since before Stiles had been bitten. Jackson hadn’t realized how much he’d missed Stiles’ hazy post-sex mouthing at his shoulder under the warm shower spray, or the way Stiles’ fingers and palms slid over Jackson’s wet skin, not trying to turn him on again, just maintaining contact. Jackson used to ignore this behavior or brush it off as silly, but not now. Now he savored it.

“Thanks,” murmured Stiles, face hiding against Jackson’s shoulder.

Jackson snorted. “It’s not like I didn’t get anything out of it.”

“Still,” said Stiles.

Jackson grabbed the shampoo instead of responding to Stiles’ rare sincerity. Luckily the moment didn’t last long. Stiles took the shampoo from Jackson and gave him a sly look.

“If I tell you this helps a lot with my control, can we do it all the time?”

“Fuck yeah,” said Jackson, smiling widely in spite of himself. It was such an immense relief to have this version of Stiles back. Yeah, their lives were still beyond fucked up and Jackson knew better than to think that Stiles was now magically fixed and would never have control issues again, but it still felt good. (The sex probably helped, too.)

 _Stiles is human_. Maybe he was stronger and faster and smelled a little different now, maybe he had a wolf lurking inside him who would never stop fighting to break free, but Jackson had meant every word he’d said: Stiles wasn’t a wolf. Jackson had been wrong to mourn the human Stiles as dead. Stiles was alive and he was still special. He still had that fucking baseball bat. If any of them could keep their humanity, it was stubborn, intelligent, ridiculous, fearless, loyal, exceptional Stiles.

“Awesome,” said Stiles, a mischievous glint in his eye. “What’s your schedule look like for the next half hour or so?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: Between Season 3, Episodes 8 and 9.
> 
> I know I made you guys wait a little bit, but I hope you enjoyed this extra-long chapter and are glad that Stiles and Jackson are a thing again :D I know I am!
> 
> If you haven't done so already, I hope you'll check out the Jackson/Isaac fic that I'm co-writing with the very talented [Savannah_Clover](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Savannah_Clover). We've just posted the FIFTH chapter! It's called _The Strength of the Wolf_ and it can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3703403). Unlike _Divided Loyalties_ it actually updates once a week on a regular basis XD
> 
> As always, many thanks to [Ismene_Jane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ismene_Jane) for being a wonderful beta, and to all of you for reading!


	24. Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: CLARITY

STILES

He and Jackson went another round and had another shower, after which point, even with werewolf stamina, both of them were exhausted. Stiles managed to find a set of clean sheets, and Jackson helped him strip the bed and remake it without being asked (kind of surreal) and lied down in it with Stiles for a little while (very surreal). There wasn’t any snuggling or anything like that--in fact, Jackson kept a few inches of space between them--but they were able to catch an hour or so of light sleep.

Stiles woke up again when the sky was just starting to get light. Jackson was still asleep, breath low and soft, pulse calm. Stiles still hated being a werewolf, but he did like the heightened senses sometimes. There were moments now when Stiles felt like he had a deeper awareness of what was around him; moments when everything was more… present. Now, Stiles was completely aware of every aspect of Jackson’s presence a few inches away from him, naked except for his boxers, cheek pressed into Stiles’ second-favorite pillow. Stiles could feel his warmth without touching him, and his scent was this amazing mix of Jackson-ness and Stiles’ shampoo and soap. Jackson was just thoroughly and completely _there_.

It was kind of a perfect moment. Unfortunately, Stiles was going to have to ruin it. The sun was coming up, which meant that Scott would be there soon to make sure that Stiles wasn’t alone when his dad got home from a night shift. Jackson should probably also get home before his parents realized he was gone. Stiles resisted the urge to do that chick flick thing where the couple is in bed after having sex the night before, and one of them is still asleep, and the awake one does something cheesy like brushes the asleep one’s cheek with the back of their knuckles or something. Instead, he gave Jackson’s shoulder a decidedly platonic nudge.

“Wakey-wakey.”

Jackson made a grumpy half-asleep sound of protest and pulled the blankets up closer around himself.

“Come on.” Stiles nudged him more insistently. “Time to go.”

There was no response from the pile of blankets that Jackson had become.

“Unless you want Scott to find us like this?”

That got Jackson’s attention. He dragged himself out from under the blankets like they weighed two tons, and stumbled to his feet, yawning and brushing sleep out of his eyes.

“Overdramatic much?” said Stiles. This earned him a glare from Jackson, which Stiles returned with a smirk.

Jackson pulled his clothes on in a too-tired-to-talk silence. Stiles pulled on a T-shirt for Scott’s benefit, but didn’t get completely dressed yet. He had enough time to put it off for a while longer.

“See you at school,” was Jackson’s way of saying ‘Goodbye and thanks for the awesome marathon fuck session, Stiles.’ After he left, Stiles happily curled up in the spot Jackson had slept in, which was still warm and smelled like him, until Scott arrived.

There was no doubt that Scott could smell Jackson and sex all over Stiles’ room, but he didn’t comment on it. (All right, he gave Stiles a knowing look and asked him how he was feeling, but when Stiles just said that he was feeling a lot better, Scott didn’t push it.) Stiles’ dad got home pretty soon after that, and they had breakfast together under Scott’s careful supervision. And even though the bacon smelled insanely good, Stiles managed to keep the wolf in check.

* * *

JACKSON

“Run with me,” said Stiles.

“What?”

Classes were over for the day, and Stiles was leaning against Jackson’s car again. He looked giddy, but not nearly as threatening as last time. After last night, Jackson was relatively sure that Stiles wouldn’t try to jump him in the middle of the parking lot again.

“I need to move,” said Stiles, tapping his fingers incessantly on the roof of the car. Granted, incessant tapping wasn’t exactly out of character for Stiles, but he was practically thrumming with energy. “It’s like… like an _itch_. You know? A metaphorical itch. I need to metaphorically scratch it. Like literally right now.”

“Get McCall to go with you,” said Jackson. He nudged Stiles aside so he could get to the driver’s side door.

“You’re here. He’s not. I can’t believe that dude still makes time to work and study when all this shit is going down.” Stiles poked Jackson in the shoulder. “Come on, it’ll be fun! Your running gear’s already in the locker room anyway, right?”

“Going all _Call of the Wild_ with you does _not_ sound like fun.”

“Liar,” said Stiles, grinning. “I can tell now, remember?”

Jackson sighed deeply. Stiles being a werewolf was _really_ inconvenient. Jackson grudgingly admitted to himself that the thought of running with Stiles did sound somewhat appealing. Jackson felt that ‘itch’ sometimes, too, and the wolf in him was having an empathetic reaction to Stiles’ energy. It might be nice to stretch his legs, to test his strength, in an environment where he didn’t have to worry about people seeing his superhuman speed and agility.

“Think of it as Cross Country practice,” said Stiles. “Coach would be so proud!”

“Fine,” said Jackson. “I’ll get my stuff.”

He insisted that Stiles keep his distance while they changed into running gear; just because he could have sex with Stiles again didn’t mean that Jackson wanted to risk fooling around at school right now. (They had already been around each other at school a little more than their classmates would think was normal lately.) They left school separately in their respective cars, and twenty minutes later they were standing at the edge of the nature preserve.

Jackson was crouching down to double-knot his shoelaces when Stiles suddenly said, “Race you to the Hale house!” and took off.

Jackson swore, sprang to his feet, and sprinted after the sneaky little shit, determined not to be shown up. Jackson had been a wolf longer than Stiles. He had a better understanding of his strength, his senses, his reflexes. He’d also been a much better athlete than Stiles when they’d been human. Surely it would be no contest.

But Jackson had underestimated Stiles’ exuberance: the power of the ‘itch’ to run, the newfound confidence and competitiveness driving him. Just when Jackson had passed Stiles and was within sight of the house, Stiles lunged and tackled Jackson to the ground from behind.

Jackson landed with a grunt, trapped by Stiles on top of him. He felt the tips of fangs press lightly into the back of his neck, not with enough pressure to break the skin, but definitely enough to make Jackson wary of moving. Jackson was pretty sure Stiles wouldn’t actually bite him now that he had a pretty good hold on his wolf, but it was a very clear display of dominance. Jackson’s wolf readily submitted, and he went still beneath the weight of Stiles’ body, lying passively on his stomach on the leaf-strewn earth.

“Not my alpha,” Jackson reminded him, though if Stiles was listening carefully he might’ve heard Jackson’s pulse skip. _Not my_ only _alpha._

“I know,” said Stiles. Jackson could feel Stiles’ teeth becoming blunt again, and when Stiles slid them over the skin on the back of Jackson’s neck, they were harmless. Jackson’s breath caught.

Stiles moved like he was going to let Jackson up, but as soon as Jackson tried to move, Stiles suddenly flipped him and he ended up pinned on his back with Stiles on top of him again. Jackson coughed as the wind was knocked out of him. This time Stiles’ teeth were at his throat, and Jackson again submitted, relaxing beneath Stiles as he caught his breath.

“Almost forgot how awesome this is,” Stiles murmured against Jackson’s throat.

“Still not my alpha,” said Jackson, as much to reaffirm it to himself as to Stiles. Despite everything that had happened, Jackson was still Derek’s beta, and the last thing he wanted was for Derek and Stiles to have another pissing contest over him, especially now that Stiles was a werewolf. Derek might be less forgiving of another wolf compromising his beta’s allegiance.

Stiles’ tongue slid hot over Jackson’s throat before blunt teeth were sinking into the side of his neck, creating a temporary hickey there. Jackson groaned, a shiver running through him while Stiles took his time with it. After a deliciously long minute, Stiles propped himself up on his forearms so he could look at Jackson’s face.

“Wanna fuck?” Stiles asked with a mischievous grin.

Jackson stared up at him, unsure whether he was joking. “Here?”

“Why not?” Stiles’ grin grew lecherous. “There’s no one around for like a mile in any direction.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am totally, completely, one-hundred percent serious,” Stiles said slowly, grinding his hips down into Jackson’s with each modifying word to punctuate his point.

Jackson inhaled sharply. Stiles was already hard, and Jackson was well on his way. “We don’t have--”

“Ha!” Stiles said victoriously. “So you’d let me fuck you if we had lube?”

“I didn’t say--”

“Fine, so we can’t fuck,” Stiles relented, still full of giddy energy even after the run. “We could still fool around.”

He dropped his head to get at Jackson’s neck again, but Jackson intercepted him, capturing his mouth in a rough kiss. He had missed being able to kiss Stiles without the taste of blood in his mouth.

“Feisty,” said Stiles when the kiss broke. “We should run more often.”

“Or we could skip the running,” Jackson suggested.

“I like the way you think, Whittemore.”

Stiles bent to kiss Jackson again, and this time Jackson slid his fingers into Stiles’ hair and gripped it to hold him there. There was an amiable power struggle while they kissed, but then a slow build of dominance in Stiles caused Jackson’s mind to grow hazy with submission. His grip on Stiles’ hair loosened.

Freed from Jackson’s grasp, Stiles broke away from the kiss and murmured “Good” against Jackson’s lips. Then he slid down Jackson’s body and settled between his knees; Jackson instinctively shifted to accommodate him. How many times had they done this now? It was like muscle memory. Stiles deftly unbuttoned Jackson’s fly.

Jackson willed himself to relax while his stomach was tight with anticipation. He got his fingers back in Stiles’ hair to ground himself. His pulse raced at the familiar-but-never-boring sensation of Stiles’ mouth on him. Jackson was dimly aware of little sounds of pleasure escaping him while he gazed up through half-lidded eyes at the cloudless sky beyond the branches above them. The wolf in him, wild and free in the forest, would’ve howled its joy if Jackson would let it.

A naive part of Jackson found himself wishing it could always be like this: alone with Stiles, running, flirting, fucking. Exciting and easy and carefree and _good_.

But he wasn’t a fool. After all, this was Beacon Hills. Nothing good lasted long here.

* * *

STILES

Stiles had been asleep for a little over an hour when his phone rang, causing him to shoot up in bed to grab it. He was alone in his room (for once); Scott had offered to stay over again because Stiles’ dad was home that night, but now that Stiles had a strong anchor and he hadn’t wolfed out at the scent of Jackson or bacon, he’d told Scott not to worry about it. He was pretty confident he wouldn’t spontaneously transform and attack his dad in the middle of the night. Mostly.

“Stiles?” Lydia’s voice was small and scared. Lydia being scared was a Very Bad Sign.

“Where are you?” Stiles didn’t bother asking for the details. Lydia wouldn’t call him if she didn’t really need his help. There was no point wasting time on explanations now when he could talk to her in person.

“School.”

“Are you okay?” Stiles got out of bed and pulled on a pair of jeans, his phone wedged between his shoulder and his cheek. “I can be there in a few minutes.”

“I’m okay,” said Lydia. “Allison’s with me. Just… Just hurry.”

“See you soon.”

Stiles hung up his phone and quickly finished putting his clothes and shoes on and grabbed his keys. He was behind the wheel of his Jeep within three minutes of picking up Lydia’s call. His dad would probably notice he was gone soon enough, but fuck it. It was better to ask forgiveness than to ask permission, right? He shot Scott a quick text about what was happening and sped off toward school.

He pulled up to the curb just as Scott arrived on his bike. Lydia and Allison were waiting for them there. Lydia explained that, just like with the virgin sacrifice at the pool, she had been driving somewhere else and ended up in a completely different place without thinking about it.

“And you told me to call you if there’s a dead body,” she finished.

“You found a dead body?” Stiles looked around their immediate line of sight, somehow expecting there to just be a corpse lying on the ground within view.

“Not yet,” said Lydia, shifting uncomfortably. Stiles could hear the frantic beating of her heart, sense her fear.

“What do you mean, ‘Not yet’? Lydia, you’re supposed to call us _after_ you find the dead body.”

“Oh, no,” said Lydia, shaking her head vehemently. “I’m not doing that again. _You_ find the dead body from now on.”

“How are we supposed to find the dead body? You’re always the one finding the dead body.”

Lydia was cut off before she could respond by Scott, who was staring at something near the front entrance of the school.

“Guys,” he said, pausing dramatically until they were all looking at him. “I found the dead body.”

Stiles’ eyes followed Scott’s gaze, and his stomach dropped. Lying face-down on top of the stone and brick marker with ‘Beacon Hills High School’ carved into it, oozing blood and unmistakably dead, was Tara.

After the full minute it took for Stiles’ shock to break, he called his dad. Predictably, though Stiles protested that he wanted to stay and help--and maybe get some clues for their own investigation into the sacrifices--his dad insisted they all go home. Scott went with him; strength in numbers and all that. They should probably be on high alert (more so than they already were) right after a fresh sacrifice.

There was no way either of them was going to get any more sleep that night. Stiles was _really_ starting to hate the fact that he could smell blood now. Even though he had only gotten within a police-sanctioned distance of Tara’s body, and even though he was definitely out of scent range from it now, he couldn’t seem to shake it. Smelling blood in general was usually unpleasant. Smelling Tara’s…

“She used to help me with my math homework,” Stiles said into the dark. It wasn’t like he and Scott needed the light to be on anyway, what with them both being werewolves now and all.

If Stiles had needed a dose of perspective to shake himself out of his self-pity about his own werewolf-ness, this had certainly done the job. His life was complicated and dangerous and painful, but at least he _had_ a life, which was more than Tara. Meanwhile, other people were dying because he still hadn’t figured out a way to stop the human sacrifices. People he cared about. First Heather, now Tara, plus a lot of other people who hadn’t deserved to die. Figuring things out was supposed to be what Stiles did, yet he didn’t feel much closer to solving the puzzle of the Darach than he had been when they’d found the first body. Stiles was failing. They were all failing.

Scott said nothing. There was nothing to say. Hell, even Stiles had come up short on words for once. So they sat together in silence for the rest of the night, until it was time to get up (from not sleeping) and go back to school and learn about stupid shit that didn’t matter while people kept getting murdered on a near-daily basis.

His dad was still at the crime scene when they got there. Stiles tried to get close enough to see what was going on (he could only find out so much from listening), but his dad caught him and sent him off to class after promising that “They’re not gonna get away with killing one of our own.”

But what could his dad actually do? It didn’t matter how many cops and FBI agents they brought in; unless someone knew about all the supernatural shit that was going on in Beacon Hills, they’d have a hell of a time even finding the Darach, let alone taking it down. And in the meantime, most of the people who did know about all the supernatural shit that was going down in Beacon Hills were stuck in an eleventh-grade English class learning about literary devices.

“I think I can get to Ethan,” said Scott, because seriously, idioms could wait. “I’m pretty sure I can make him talk.”

“What do you want to do that for?” said Stiles.

“The druids are emissaries, right? So what if the Darach was an emissary to the alphas?”

That... was actually kind of brilliant. But there was one major flaw in Scott’s plan.

“Okay, first of all, I cannot believe that we’ve gotten to the point where a sentence like, ‘What if the Darach was an emissary to the alphas?’ actually makes sense to me. Second of all, we’re gonna have a huge problem getting to Ethan.”

Scott gave Stiles a quizzical look. “What’s that?”

“Going through Aiden.”

Then they both had the same (awful) thought at the same time.

Lydia was a pretty good sport about essentially being pimped out to distract a murderous alpha werewolf so Scott and Stiles could ambush his brother, but in the end they were able to convince her that it was pretty much a matter of life and death (and also Stiles promised to wash her car every week for two months if they survived the Darach-alphas double threat.)

It was clearly guilt that made Ethan agree to talk to them, and Stiles was 100% fine with Ethan feeling guilty. He _should_ feel guilty. He should feel so guilty he could barely stand up straight under the unbearably staggering weight of his guilt. Stiles wasn’t buying the whole ‘we didn’t have a choice’ line that the twins were selling. They had killed Boyd: an innocent (for the most part) teenager. Like the Darach wasn’t doing enough of that already.

“Why are you even talking to me?” said Ethan, speaking directly to Scott like Stiles wasn’t worth his time. “I helped kill your friend. How do you know I’m not gonna kill another one?”

Yeah, not only was Stiles 100% fine with Ethan feeling guilty, he was also 100% done with his bullshit.

“Is he looking at me? Are you threatening me? You know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna break off an extra large branch of mountain ash, wrap it in wolfsbane, roll it in mistletoe, and shove it up your freaking--”

Scott cut Stiles off with that reasonable earnestness that kind of infuriated Stiles sometimes. But of course it worked. Ethan explained the twins’ history with their old pack, how they became alphas, how Deucalion taught them to form Voltron Wolf and they joined his pack. Unfortunately, Ethan didn’t have much information that was actually useful. In the end, the only really helpful thing he did was alert them to the fact that Cora was attacking Aidan (through a creepy magic alpha twin thing where Ethan’s chest hurt).

The three of them dashed down to the locker room, but by the time Scott and Ethan got Aidan away from Cora, he’d bashed her head with a barbell weight. Lydia, who had been pleading with Aidan to stop, was kneeling next to her on the floor. Stiles was halfway to dropping to his knees as well to see if Cora was all right when he heard an ominous, familiar growl from behind him.

Well, fuck.

* * *

JACKSON

Jackson was grabbing some books from his locker when he heard the fight break out. When he got to the locker room, Cora was on the floor, blood seeping from her forehead. On instinct, Jackson growled and turned on the twin alpha who had hurt his packmate. The other twin and McCall were already holding him back, but Jackson advanced on him anyway, fangs and claws sharp, eyes burning.

“Jackson!”

Stiles had gotten hold of Jackson’s arms from behind and was hooking his elbows under Jackson’s shoulders. Jackson struggled and snarled, but Stiles held him fast. Jackson had forgotten about Stiles’ werewolf strength.

“Stop!” Stiles commanded near Jackson’s ear.

The authority in Stiles’ tone was enough to make Jackson back down, despite the fact that he was still overwhelmed by the instinct to rip the alpha’s throat out.

Once Jackson forced his muscles to relax, Stiles let him go, and Jackson rushed to kneel down at Cora’s side next to Lydia. Jackson was vaguely aware of the twins leaving, if only because his instincts stopped screaming at him to attack. Carefully, he got an arm under Cora’s neck and shoulder to help her sit up.

“I’m fine,” said Cora, in a weak voice that was not very convincing.

“What did he do?” Jackson ran his thumb over the gash in her forehead, smearing some of the blood as he tried to figure out how bad the wound was. She hissed in pain and waved him off.

When she wouldn’t stop trying to get up, Jackson relented and helped her to her feet, keeping her steady as she staggered over to a nearby sink to clean off some of the blood. She pushed Jackson’s hand away when he tried to help.

“You okay?” Stiles frowned at Cora in the mirror.

“She doesn’t look okay,” said Lydia.

“I’ll heal,” Cora said irritably. She stumbled when she stepped away from the mirror, and Stiles, McCall, and Jackson all surged forward to catch her.

She glared at them--even Jackson--stubbornly, and stepped away, determined to stand on her own.

“Do you realize how suicidally crazy that was?” said Stiles. “What were you thinking, going after them?”

Cora rounded on Stiles. “I did it for Boyd! None of you were doing anything.”

“We’re trying,” said McCall, so earnestly it was kind of pathetic.

“And you’re failing,” Cora said coldly. “You’re just a bunch of stupid teenagers, running around, thinking that you can stop people from getting killed. But all you do is show up late. All you really do is find the bodies.”

She moved to storm off, but Jackson caught her wrist. “Cora…”

Cora’s eyes snapped up to meet his, and it looked for a moment like she might jerk away from him, but she didn’t. She just stood by the door, radiating anger and frustration and grief.

“She’s definitely a Hale,” Stiles muttered.

“Come on,” Jackson said to Cora. “I’ll take you home.”

After a moment of conflicted hesitation, Cora nodded her assent, and she and Jackson headed for the door.

“We have that test in Civics today,” said Lydia from behind them. Jackson could hear the wariness in her voice. She was intimately familiar with Jackson’s temper.

“Screw Civics,” said Jackson.

But Lydia wouldn’t let it go. “It’s thirty percent of our grade, Jackson.”

Unfortunately, that was a point that Jackson couldn’t ignore. He’d managed to skip a class here and there and still stay under the radar, but there was no way he could miss a test like that without someone telling his parents. Even if he made it up later, he wouldn’t get full credit for it. His parents had let a lot of his behavior slide ever since the coming-back-from-the-dead incident, but Jackson knew that they wouldn’t let him compromise his future like that. And the last thing Jackson needed right now was his parents scrutinizing his life.

“I said I’m fine,” Cora insisted. “Really. I’ll heal. I can get back on my own.”

“But--” Jackson started.

“I’ll take her home,” said Stiles.

Pretty much everyone else turned to look at him, surprised.

“Why not?” Stiles shrugged. “I’m pretty much done for the day anyway.”

“You don’t have to do that,” said Jackson.

“It’s really not a big deal,” said Stiles. “I’ll drive her back to the loft, Derek can scold her for being a bad puppy, and I’ll see you guys at the recital tonight.”

Before Jackson could say anything else, the bell rang.

“Fine,” he said, and let go of Cora’s wrist. “Text me when you’re home. And don’t do anything stupid.”

Cora rolled her eyes and left the room without another word. Just before following her out, Stiles caught Jackson’s eye and gave him a very slight nod. Jackson found himself returning the gesture.

It was a small thing, objectively, but it didn’t feel that way. As casual as Stiles was being about the whole thing, it meant something that he had offered to help Cora (even when she clearly didn’t want his help). Cora was Jackson’s pack. By helping his packmate, Stiles was helping Jackson, too. He was doing something that Jackson couldn’t do right now, as much as he desperately wanted to.

Over the past couple of months, Jackson had slowly learned to (for the most part) trust Stiles with himself--the smallest, most secret parts of himself that nobody but Stiles knew about--but he had never trusted Stiles with someone else before. Someone who mattered to Jackson now almost more than anyone else did.

Did Stiles understand that, or was he just doing something nice because he was a nice person? And would it be better for everyone, Jackson wondered, if Stiles did understand? Or would that just make things more complicated than they already were?

The bell rang again. Jackson swore and dashed off to class, hoping that he had actually studied the material on which 30% of his grade now hinged.

* * *

DEREK

The worried texts had stopped after a few days. Maybe Jennifer had given up on him. Now that there seemed to be a lull between the most recent devastating attack by the alphas and the inevitable next one, Derek decided that he owed it to her to see how she was doing. He’d also be lying to himself if he said that he didn’t want to see her for other reasons. Putting all of that from his mind, he made his way over to the school.

He’d thought Jennifer might be angry with him for avoiding her, but as soon as she saw him, her face lit up and she ran toward him. She threw herself into his arms and kissed him passionately. It was only in that moment that Derek realized how much he had missed her, and remembered how comforting her presence could be, what a relief it was to be with someone who was separate from the weight of responsibility that he had with his pack. That thought sparked a pang of guilt in Derek, but not enough to deny himself this.

Unfortunately, her separateness from his pack also meant she didn’t fully understand what it meant to him. She didn’t mean for her joke about him needing to be alone to be insensitive, but it still stung. She sensed his pain and apologized. She didn’t want to hurt him. Her voice was soft and soothing as she asked for his forgiveness. Derek found himself unwilling to break contact with her, hands and fingers holding her gently against him. Like they were keeping each other standing.

“They’re not going to hurt you,” Derek promised her when she confessed that the twin alphas made her feel unsafe at school.

Her bright, trusting smile made Derek’s chest ache. She pressed her forehead to his, and she felt far more precious to him in that moment than he would have ever expected. In spite of everything, he had missed her smile, her scent, the feel of her close to him.

The bell that signaled the end of lunch period broke the spell.

“Some days, I just want to take a sledgehammer to that bell,” she said, which made him smile. Smiling was so rare for Derek these days. It felt good.

Her arms were still looped around his shoulders, like she was as reluctant to leave him as he was to leave her.

“Why don’t you just come back with me?” he heard himself say.

But she couldn’t. And he had known that, logically. But what he was feeling was anything but logical. She told him about the recital she was planning to honor the murder victims. She was selfless and considerate and kind, and if he’d had it in him to love much of anything besides his pack right now, he would’ve loved that about her.

She flashed another smile at his approval. He kissed her again, and she left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: First part of Season 3, Episode 9.
> 
> Augh, I'm sorry this took so long to finish! Things got kind of crazy during the past month, for both me and my beta, and I didn't have time to sit down and take notes on episode 3x09, and I couldn't write this chapter until I did that. The good news is that the next chapter takes place during 3x09, too, so I won't need to make time to re-watch the show for chapter 25. (You'll notice I "borrowed" a fair amount of canon dialogue for this chapter...)
> 
> Once again I offer you a piece of shameless self-promotion and say that if you haven't done so already, I hope you'll check out the Jackson/Isaac fic that I'm co-writing with the very talented [Savannah_Clover](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Savannah_Clover). We're hoping to post the tenth chapter tonight or tomorrow night, and generally update weekly. The fic is called _The Strength of the Wolf_ and it can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3703403). Unlike _Divided Loyalties_ it actually updates on a regular basis XD
> 
> As always, many thanks to [Ismene_Jane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ismene_Jane) for being a wonderful beta, and thank you all for your patience, your views, kudos, and comments. You really keep me going, even when I haven't posted in a while.


	25. Clarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: CLARITY

STILES

Stiles and Cora were halfway to the loft when Allison called. Apparently she and Isaac had figured out that some crazy diagram on Argent’s desk meant that he might be the killer, and that the current group of humans that were being sacrificed was ‘Guardians,’ which most likely meant one particular group of people that Stiles was very attached to: law enforcement.

Though Stiles didn’t want to accept it, they all knew what he needed to do next. He needed to tell his dad. If his dad didn’t know he was in danger, and from what, then it could get him killed.

“What are you going to do?” Cora asked as Stiles changed routes, heading back to his house.

“I’m gonna tell him the truth,” said Stiles. “And I’m gonna need your help.”

If Stiles were honest with himself, he didn’t actually need Cora for this. If he was going to prove to his dad that werewolves were real, then he just needed a werewolf to transform in front of his dad. Stiles was a werewolf. He could easily do it himself.

Except that he _couldn’t_. He couldn’t face that on top of everything else. His dad needed to know that werewolves existed, but he didn’t need to know that Stiles was one, did he? Stiles thought back to how Scott’s mom had reacted when she’d found out about Scott. How she hadn’t talked to him for days. How she’d been afraid of him. Would Stiles’ dad feel that way about him if he knew? And wouldn’t knowing about Stiles distract him from dealing with the real problem? Maybe it would be best to keep that on lockdown until the alpha pack and Darach situations were resolved.

Or maybe Stiles was just a coward. Maybe he was still in denial about this whole werewolf thing being his permanent identity, and telling his dad about it would make it real. Either way, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not yet.

Despite being injured, Cora was giving off some serious irritation rays from where she sat on the edge of Stiles’ bed while Stiles paced back and forth, grasping for the best way to phrase the information he needed to convey.

“Stiles?” his dad said impatiently.

“Dad, I'm sorry, okay?” said Stiles, fidgeting uncontrollably. “I'm just... I'm trying to... I'm just trying to figure out how to start here.”

His dad fixed Stiles with the very familiar I-Don’t-Have-Time-For-This Look and said (redundantly), “Hey, I don't have this kind of time.”

Sensing that he was about to lose his chance, Stiles bit the bullet and launched into an awkward and not particularly coherent recap of of the past several months: the murders involving Kate, and the ones involving Matt, and Matt getting murdered himself, and now the murders involving human sacrifices. This turned out to be the wrong tactic, because it made it sound like his dad was failing miserably at his job, which was, well, to keep the citizens of Beacon Hills from being murdered. When his dad pointed this out, Stiles’ eyes frantically scanned the room, desperately searching for something that could help dig him out of this hole. When they landed on his travel chess set, an innocuous phrase from English class surged to the forefront of his thoughts:

 _Seeing the whole board_.

Stiles snatched up the chess set and scrambled to find a pen and some colored sticky tabs. Ten minutes later, the board was laid out with various pieces labeled with the names of Beacon Hills’ resident (and deceased) werewolves, hunters, emissaries, and various monsters. Stiles was actually rather impressed with his own work, but his dad did not seem to agree. He stared blankly at the board, then up at Stiles, as if he wasn’t sure whether Stiles was messing with him or was genuinely crazy.

“Scott and Derek are werewolves,” his dad said flatly.

“Yes,” said Stiles, feeling a flicker of anxious relief. Even if his dad was skeptical, at least they were getting somewhere.

But his relief was short-lived. Even with the color-coded labels, his dad couldn’t keep straight which people belonged to which category. Stiles admitted inwardly that maybe he hadn’t done a good job of explaining that Jackson used to be the Kanima but was now a werewolf, but was the rest really that complicated? Maybe Stiles had just gotten so used to it over the past few months that he had just accepted this insane reality as almost normal.

And it was too insane for his dad to accept, apparently, because in addition to being confused, he was now actively pissed off. He got up to leave, and Stiles quickly moved to get between him and the bedroom door.

“Dad, would you... I can prove it, okay?” Stiles gestured to Cora. “Look, she's one of them! A werewolf.”

“Stiles! That's enough.”

As his dad turned to leave, Stiles cursed himself for the dozens--no, probably hundreds--of times he’d come up with ridiculous stories or played pranks when he was a kid. Who would’ve thought that figuratively ‘crying wolf’ would come back to bite him in the ass when there were _actual_ (were)wolves involved?

“Dad, can you please just hold on?” Stiles said desperately. And, bless him, his dad stopped and gave him one last chance. Stiles turned to Cora and held his hand out. “You ready?” When she got to her feet, Stiles turned back toward his dad. “All right, dad, just watch this, okay?”

But the look of surprise on his dad’s face wasn’t from seeing a werewolf for the first time: it was from seeing a teenage girl collapse on Stiles’ bedroom floor. His dad rushed over to Cora. She was unconscious, and the wound on her forehead from Aidan hitting her with the barbell weight was bleeding again.

“Call an ambulance,” his dad commanded, and Stiles obeyed immediately.

The ambulance was there in less than ten minutes, but even that short period of time was torture. Stiles could hear every shallow breath, every faint heartbeat, and he couldn’t risk taking Cora’s pain because his dad might see. All thoughts of telling his dad the truth about werewolves fled Stiles’ head. Cora was hurt, and it had to be pretty fucking bad if her super healing hadn’t fixed it, and if something happened to her because Stiles had made her try to wolf out when she was too weak, Jackson and Derek were going to kill him. Hell, even if they didn’t, Stiles wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to forgive himself.

After the paramedics had assessed Cora’s vitals and decided she needed to go to the hospital, they loaded her into the ambulance. Stiles texted Derek and Jackson about what had happened, and he and his dad followed it in the sheriff’s car with the siren on all the way to the hospital.

It wasn’t until they got to the hospital and Cora was being wheeled into a room and hooked up to various monitors that Stiles remembered how dangerous it was for werewolves to be patients in human hospitals. Scott had gone through a hell of a lot of trouble to get Isaac out of the hospital before the medical staff (besides Melissa) had realized that he had magically healed from near-fatal wounds (not to mention the alpha pack trying to wolfnap him at the same time). The same thing could happen with Cora, and Stiles had only intended to reveal the existence of werewolves to one person that day, not an entire health care facility.

Unfortunately, Cora’s injury had made revealing that secret to his dad impossible, at least for the moment. Not only could Stiles not prove it by having Cora wolf out in front of his dad, but he also couldn’t use his backup option: wolfing out himself. There were too many people around, and there wasn’t enough time to make convince his dad to come with him somewhere private. Stiles wished desperately that his dad could just take it on faith that he was telling the truth, but if his detailed explanation hadn’t worked, nothing short of physical proof would do it.

Derek spared two words--“What room?”--for Stiles when he arrived at the hospital. As soon as Stiles answered, Derek was off toward Cora’s room without even checking in, much to the dismay of the hospital staff, who seemed leery of stopping him even though in theory they needed him to prove he was family. Stiles was just debating whether or not to get involved when Scott called.

Apparently Allison and Isaac had figured out that they had been wrong about the current round of sacrifices being Guardians (like law enforcement); they were ‘Philosophers.’ Teachers.

“That makes sense,” said Stiles over the phone. “Tara, she wasn't always a cop. She used to teach middle school.”

Which is why she had used to help Stiles with his homework.

“Then the last one's gonna be another teacher,” said Scott.

The hope that had buoyed Stiles from having a good lead immediately faded. There were way more teachers in Beacon Hills than law enforcement officers. Their pool of potential victims had just been majorly expanded rather than narrowed down.

“Yeah, but there's dozens of them, Scott, and they're all headed home.”

There was a dramatic pause when Scott didn’t answer immediately. Stiles desperately hoped that Scott had come up with some kind of revelation, because Stiles was completely out of ideas. And, thank God, his best friend didn’t disappoint him:

“No,” said Scott. “No, they're not. They're all going to the recital.”

Holy shit. 

Stiles rushed back over to where his dad had been waiting in the lobby, but it looked like he had received a call, because he was heading out again. Which probably meant that he’d heard about Mr. Westover. And now he was going to go out there and try to solve another murder without knowing anything about the supernatural insanity that had been going on for months. There was no time for his dad to go investigate Mr. Westover’s body. He needed to get to the school. _Now_.

Stiles’ mind grasped for any kind of information that might help, any time where his dad might have seen something supernatural, if not a werewolf. Then he landed on what Scott had told him about that night when Deaton had nearly been sacrificed in the bank vault. He rattled off the information, trying desperately to get his dad to admit that what had happened couldn’t be explained without factoring in the supernatural, but it wasn’t working.

“You saw something that you can't explain,” Stiles insisted.

His dad stopped in the hallway and turned back toward Stiles.

“Stiles, I have seen a lot of things I can't explain in this town. That doesn't make 'em supernatural and it doesn't make 'em real. They just found another body. That's real. And that's the lead I'm following.”

“Yeah, and another teacher's going to die if you don't start listening to m--”

Suddenly his dad was shouting, something that was so rare that Stiles stopped in his tracks. “I am listening! I have been listening!”

Everyone around them went silent and stopped moving. Stiles was frozen, stunned. He had tried everything short of being able to show his dad an actual werewolf, and it hadn’t been enough. He had tried to help, and it had only driven a wedge between Stiles and his dad.

Stiles’ voice sounded weak to his own ears as he said, “You just don't believe.”

His dad raised his finger like he was going to go off on Stiles again, but no words came out. He was too angry with Stiles, too frustrated, to say anything. He turned his back on Stiles, and Stiles heard himself say four words he would never be able to take back:

“Mom would've believed me.”

* * *

JACKSON 

It was nearly dinnertime when Jackson had finally been able to get to the hospital, and Stiles had apparently already left. Stiles’ text about Cora had nearly sent Jackson into a panic, but he had promised Danny he’d hang around for a little while after school while Danny practiced for the recital. Danny was getting particularly good at telling if Jackson was lying, and Jackson had no way of explaining who Cora was or his relationship to her without opening himself up to a flood of questions that he couldn’t answer.

Derek didn’t even look up when Jackson came into the room and closed the door behind him. He’d known by scent that it was Jackson, of course.

“How is she?” Jackson asked as he surveyed the bed where Cora lay, clearly unconscious.

Derek’s only response was a weary shrug. They both knew that almost any remotely positive response Derek could give would be a lie. Prolonged unconsciousness was not something that usually happened to werewolves, and was therefore good reason to be worried.

Jackson shifted awkwardly, hesitant to move further into the room. “I can go if you want.”

It’s not like Jackson was family anyway (as far as anyone except Jackson and Cora knew). He wouldn’t have even been able to get into the room except that Mrs. McCall helped him sneak in.

When Derek didn’t say anything, Jackson turned to leave.

“Stay.”

Derek’s voice made Jackson’s body immediately go still. It wasn’t exactly an alpha command, but there was enough authority in the tone to give Jackson pause. He turned back around to find Derek finally looking up at him.

Jackson walked over to stand at Cora’s bedside, opposite from where Derek was sitting. Almost unconsciously, he reached out and trailed his fingertips over Cora’s arm. Black lines immediately crept up his forearm, and he pulled his hand away on instinct. Jackson winced. Even though she wasn’t awake, Cora was hurting.

“I’ve been taking some of her pain every now and then,” said Derek, “but she would--”

“She’d be pissed at you if you took too much,” Jackson finished for him. The last thing Cora would want would be for Derek--as both her alpha and her brother--to weaken himself when they were under threat from both the alpha pack and the Darach, just to make her feel a little better for a while.

“You care about her a lot,” Derek observed.

“She’s in my pack,” said Jackson casually, avoiding Derek’s eyes, which he could feel on him like a physical weight.

Derek was quiet for a few seconds before saying, “That’s not the only reason.”

Jackson’s glanced up at Derek, caught off guard. Surely Derek couldn’t think that Jackson and Cora…

“It’s not like that,” Jackson said as firmly as possible, so as to leave Derek in no doubt that there was nothing romantic going on between him and Cora. The thought of that would have been ridiculous even before she’d told him about their likely kinship.

“I know,” said Derek.

“Then what are you talking abou--”

“You’re not just pack.” Derek fixed Jackson with a level stare. “You’re family.”

Jackson’s heart pounded against his ribs, anxiety building in his stomach. How could Derek have figured that out? How long had he known? Had Cora told him? Surely she wouldn’t do that, not when she knew that Jackson didn’t want her to. ...Would she?

The way Jackson looked down at Cora must have given his thoughts away.

“She didn’t say anything to me,” said Derek. “But I could tell she knew, once I figured it out. The way you guys are around each other. She told you, right?”

“Yeah,” said Jackson. “How did you…?”

“Scent, I guess,” said Derek, shrugging. “Or some other sense. It took me a while.”

Jackson hesitated before asking, “Do you know who my parents are?”

“Not your mother,” said Derek. “You smell like Talia, but the timing doesn’t work. We would’ve noticed if she’d been pregnant after Cora. Which basically leaves one option…”

Every muscle in Jackson’s body was tense. He didn’t want to hear the name. Somehow, he felt that Derek saying the name out loud would make it real. And Jackson very much did not want it to be real.

Thankfully, Derek avoided it. “I don’t think he knows. If he did, he’d--”

“He’d try to use me,” said Jackson.

The pain and confusion Jackson had felt when Cora had first told him about who she thought his birth father was were starting to creep back into his consciousness. The anxious feeling in his stomach intensified, spreading up into his chest. His heart raced, his breath was short, and suddenly his eyes were stinging.

The sound of a chair scraping against the linoleum floor made Jackson look up.

Derek stood and, very unexpectedly, took a few steps around the bed to where Jackson was and pulled him into a tight hug. His hand cradled Jackson’s head, palm half on his neck, half at the base of his skull. Their height difference was such that Jackson’s face was pressed to Derek’s shoulder, hiding there. Jackson stood passively in Derek’s arms, inhaling his scent, letting his alpha’s power to soothe him ease the fear he felt for Cora, the pain of the truth about his birth father.

His alpha. His cousin. His family.

“You know I can’t promise to protect you,” Derek murmured against Jackson’s hair. “I couldn’t protect Erica or Boyd and now…” He sighed deeply. “But I promise… I promise I won’t hurt you ever again. I promise I’ll be on your side from now on.”

Since he didn’t know how to respond to that, Jackson said (with more conviction than he felt), “She’ll be okay.”

He felt Derek nod before he stepped back a bit, palm slipping from the back of Jackson’s neck to his shoulder, which he squeezed gently. Jackson looked up at Derek. His alpha’s eyes were so sad. Defeated.

Jackson slipped out of Derek’s hold. He had to look away as he said quietly, “I… I understand. Why you were like that to me.”

 _Like that_. Cold. Distant. Domineering.

Derek said nothing. Jackson almost regretted it. There was an awkward tension in the room between them now. A lot of things unsaid. A lot of things Jackson would never be able to say to Derek, family or not. _I forgive you. You just wanted us to be strong. So we’d be safe._

Before either of them could think of something else to say, a weak, pitiful voice that was so unlike Cora’s said, “Derek?”

Derek rushed back to Cora’s bedside. Jackson felt the same impulse, but he held back. She hadn’t asked for him, after all.

“Hey,” said Derek, tone conveying his immense relief that she was awake. “Hey, I’m here.”

She was so weak, confused.

Scared. “What's happening to me?”

“I don't know,” said Derek. “But I'm not leaving, okay? Not again.”

As Derek leaned over the bedside to kiss his little sister on the forehead, Jackson suddenly felt very much like an intruder. Jackson took an uncertain step away, back toward the door.

“Jackson.”

Cora hadn’t turned her head to look, but she knew he was there. Without being asked, Jackson found another chair and set it near her bedside, across from Derek. He sat down and took her hand in his, not caring about the pain that pulsed through his arm. It seemed less now that she was awake.

They stayed there together in silence, Cora’s brother and her cousin shielding her on each side. Three of the four remaining Hales: the damaged remains of a decimated family.

* * *

DEREK 

Derek hadn’t been able to persuade Jackson to go to the recital. He had some vague recollection that Jackson’s best friend was in the school band and tried to convince him that he should go support his friend, but Jackson would have none of it. Derek supposed he couldn’t blame him. Derek himself had thought about going to the recital to support Jennifer, but that had been before this had happened. He had promised Cora he wouldn’t leave her, and he intended to keep that promise.

It was only just after dark, but Jackson had already fallen asleep in the chair on Cora’s other side. He was resting his cheek on his arm near her hip. The fingers that had been touching her arm had gone slack, his arm falling away so he wasn’t taking pain from her anymore, which was just as well. They both needed to keep up their strength in case something happened and they needed to protect Cora.

Melissa had somehow managed to keep all of the other nurses and doctors away from Cora for the time being. She had taken Cora’s vitals after Cora had briefly woken up, and checked in every now and then to see if anything had changed, but Derek had waved her away. Cora’s status was frustratingly stable, with no sign of changing soon. Stable was better than critical, but a lack of improvement did not bode well.

The scream rang out so suddenly that Derek’s head whipped around toward its source. Instantly, Jackson was awake and sitting up, staring in the same direction. The sound was too far away for human ears, Derek knew, but it was clear enough for werewolves, even across town.

“Lydia,” Jackson said, surging to his feet.

He was right. Derek had no idea how Lydia had been able to scream so loudly, or what would cause her to do so, but the answers to both those questions could not be remotely good. She was scared, she was in pain, and she needed help.

Jackson looked from Derek to Cora as he said, “I have to go.”

Derek nodded his understanding. It was the right thing for Jackson to do. But Derek looked back at Cora’s face and kept his eyes focused there.

“Are you coming?” Jackson asked tentatively.

“I promised Cora I wouldn’t leave her,” said Derek.

Jackson hesitated. “What if you could hel--”

“I promised,” Derek said firmly, finally looking up at Jackson.

“I…” Jackson frowned, but he didn’t argue. “Okay. I’ll call or something. When I know what’s going on.”

Derek gave another nod, and, clearly sensing the finality of the gesture, Jackson left.

Silence settled back on the room, apart from the occasional beeping of the various machines that were monitoring Cora’s vital signs. Derek took Cora’s hand in his and squeezed it, taking a fraction of her pain during the brief contact. The physical sensation was a welcome distraction from the guilt and terror that were threatening to overwhelm him.

He could leave. He probably _should_ leave. He should go to the school with Jackson and help Lydia. If he went, he could help Jennifer, too, if she needed it. Jennifer could be in danger as well.

But Derek had promised. He wouldn’t leave Cora. Never again. There was no one more important than she was to him now; nowhere it was more important for him to be. Even if thinking it made him a monster, Derek knew: he’d sacrifice Lydia and Jennifer and more if it meant keeping his little sister safe.

He’d been born a monster anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I misnamed the previous chapter! It should've been Reality, not Clarity; this one is Clarity. I fixed it.  
> Timeline: Second part of Season 3, Episode 9.
> 
> Sorry for the short-ish chapter and the dealing with lots of canon stuff, but it had to be done. Hope you enjoyed it anyway!
> 
> Once again I offer you a piece of shameless self-promotion and say that if you haven't done so already, I hope you'll check out the Jackson/Isaac fic that I'm co-writing with the very talented [Savannah_Clover](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Savannah_Clover). We just posted the thirteenth chapter yesterday, and generally update weekly. The fic is called _The Strength of the Wolf_ and it can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3703403). Unlike _Divided Loyalties_ it actually updates on a regular basis XD
> 
> As always, many thanks to [Ismene_Jane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ismene_Jane) for being a wonderful beta, and thank you all for your patience, your views, kudos, and comments. I appreciate every one of them!


	26. Culpability

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: CULPABILITY

STILES

The scream was impossibly loud. It bore into Stiles’ skull, made pain bloom behind his eyes. Out of instinct, he pressed his hands over his ears, like that would do any good. It was only when pain radiated from his knee caps as well that Stiles realized he had dropped to the ground on the pavement outside school, with Scott beside him.

A super fun way to learn the drawbacks of werewolf hearing.

Though the scream barely sounded human, something in Stiles _knew_ it was Lydia. Scott must have known, too, because after the sound had stopped and the disorientation had faded, Scott said Lydia’s name before he shot off in the direction of the scream.

Stiles arrived at the classroom just behind Scott, but he was too late. Miss Blake, using some previously unknown superhuman powers, threw a desk in front of the door Stiles had been about to launch himself through. Even with werewolf strength, he wasn’t able to shove his way in. He was forced to watch through the safety glass window in the door, helpless, as his dad faced off with Miss Blake--who was very clearly and undeniably _not_ an ordinary high school teacher--without any knowledge of what she could do.

It was excruciating. Stiles could hear his dad trying to talk her down, even as he had a knife sticking out of his chest and his gun in his hand. He shot her in the leg first; he didn’t want to kill her. Stiles cursed. Of all the times to play by the friggin’ rules! His dad’s cry of pain as Miss Blake lifted him up by the knife handle made Stiles’ eyes burn gold. Even through the closed door, he could smell blood. Stiles shoved frantically at the door, but it wouldn’t budge. There must have been more than the desk keeping it shut.

Then--What the fuck?--she _kissed_ his dad. Because of course she-- _it_ , Stiles corrected himself when the Darach finally revealed her true face--had to add grossness to injury. Why couldn’t monsters and psychopaths just be generically violent and murdery, without all the theatrics?

Finally the door gave way, and Stiles practically threw the desk aside to get into the classroom. But it didn’t matter: they were already gone.

“...Dad?” Stiles said to the broken window. Like somehow his dad was still there, just out of sight.

There was a groan from behind Stiles as Scott hauled himself up to his feet. Stiles turned toward him, already feeling panic start to build in his chest.

“We have to go after them.”

Scott shook his head. “We can’t.”

“Are you freaking kidding me?” said Stiles. “Dude, we have to go, now!”

“Not yet,” said Scott, looking pained. “We need backup. We need to talk to Derek.”

“Screw backup!” Stiles was nearly shouting in Scott’s face now. “Scott, we--”

“What the fuck happened here?”

Stiles spun around to find Jackson in the doorway, surveying the wreckage of the classroom, eyes wide.

“Miss Blake is the Darach,” said Scott, wiping blood away from his mouth. “She took Stiles’ dad.”

“Which is why we are leaving _now_ and going after her,” said Stiles.

“Well, that’s a fucking stupid idea,” said Jackson. He turned his head and seemed to register Lydia’s presence for the first time. “Shit, Lydia, are you okay?”

Lydia nodded weakly. If Stiles had been in his right mind, he would’ve been the first person to check on her. (She was taped to a friggin’ chair and had just been almost killed, for fuck’s sake!) But, awful as it was to think, Stiles kind of didn’t give a shit about anyone right now except his dad. He knew Lydia was alive. That was more than he could say about his dad.

“Fine, go talk to Derek,” Stiles said to Scott. “But I’m not wasting any more time.”

Stiles made to jump out through the window, but--

“Not gonna happen,” said Jackson as he hauled Stiles back by his wrist.

Before Stiles could pull himself free, Jackson got his arms around Stiles’ torso from behind.

“What the hell!” Stiles struggled to escape from Jackson’s grasp. He didn’t have time for this! He could feel himself starting to shift, teeth and claws sharpening, eyes burning. He snapped and growled, smelled blood when his claws cut into Jackson’s forearms. Much as he hated wolfing out, he didn’t even try to find his anchor. He needed all the strength he could get right now.

“Little help here, McCall?” Jackson shouted at Scott, who rushed over to them.

Scott slid his arm under Stiles’ left shoulder, leaving Jackson to only have to deal with Stiles’ right side, and between them they managed to hold Stiles back, despite his best efforts to fight them off. Apparently he was no match for an aspiring True Alpha and a more seasoned beta.

“Stiles,” said Jackson. “Stiles! You can’t go right now. You’ll just get yourself killed.”

“We can still catch her!” Stiles insisted. “Let me go!”

“You’re not thinking straight,” said Scott. “We have to play this smart. I don’t want anyone else getting hurt.”

“Play it smart?” Stiles nearly laughed at the irony of Scott trying to tell Stiles what the _smart_ thing to do in a situation was. “Scott, we both know that if it was your mom--”

“That I’d want to do something stupid, too,” Scott finished. “And we both know that you’d try to stop me.”

This took some of the fight out of Stiles. He had to admit, at least to himself, that Scott had a good point. Stiles stopped struggling and took several deep breaths. _I’m human. I’m human._ His features shifted back. After a few moments, Scott cautiously let him go, and Jackson followed suit.

“Holy crap.”

Isaac’s voice from the doorway. Allison and her dad were there, too.

“Oh my God, Lydia!” Allison rushed over to the chair where Lydia was still restrained. Chris followed.

Rather than reassuring Stiles, the whole situation just pissed him off. Where the hell had all of these people been when Scott and Stiles could’ve actually used their help against the Darach?

Stiles moved toward the broken window again, but he only made it two steps before Jackson tackled him up against the nearest wall and pinned him there. Under much different circumstances, the move might’ve been a turn-on. Right now? Not so much.

“Asshole,” Stiles growled, trying to shove Jackson off, with no success. Jackson had all the leverage.

“Dumbshit,” Jackson countered.

Stiles gave him a gold-eyed glare. “You--”

“Not that you guys aren’t _adorable_ ,” Isaac drawled, “but is someone going to fill us in on what the fuck just happened?”

Despite a discernible flush of embarrassment at Isaac’s comment, Jackson kept Stiles firmly restrained while Scott explained the situation to the others: how Miss Blake was the Darach, how she had tried to sacrifice Lydia, how she had taken Stiles’ dad to be the next sacrifice, and (implicitly) how everyone except Stiles was being a fucking idiot and wasting time instead of actually doing something about to save his dad.

“Great,” said Isaac. “So who’s going to tell Derek that now he’s got Stiles and Jackson beat in the seriously dysfunctional relationship department?”

The group was divided in pairs on their reactions to Isaac’s comment: Stiles and Jackson glared at him, Scott and Lydia gave him exasperated looks, and Allison and her dad gaped at him. Apparently no one, not even Lydia, had mentioned Stiles’ and Jackson’s... _situation_ to Allison. Stiles was actually kind of impressed by this unexpected turn of events.

“Wait, what?” Allison stared from Isaac to Stiles and Jackson, then back again.

“You didn’t know? Stiles and Jackson have been boning since summer,” Isaac said casually, like he was reading the weather report.

Stiles felt a very strong impulse to deck Isaac in the face, but suspected that Jackson might stop him. Either that, or beat Stiles to the punch (literally).

“Seriously?” said Allison, wide-eyed.

“Yep,” said Isaac. “They’re super weird about it even though nobody gives a shit.”

“Hang on,” said Scott, like something had just occurred to him. “Since _summer_?”

“All right, maybe we should save the teen drama for a time when our friends and family aren’t in mortal danger,” Chris said irritably. “Isaac, could you please find Lydia’s mother? She needs to go to the hospital.”

“I’m fine,” Lydia insisted, but her voice was raspy.

“How about we let a doctor be the judge of that, hm?” said Chris.

Isaac glanced at Scott, who nodded his agreement with Chris’ request. This seemed to be enough to get Isaac to actually _do_ something that someone asked him to do without being a mouthy brat about it.

“Okay,” said Scott. “You guys make sure Lydia is okay. Stiles, we need to go talk to Derek and figure out what our next move is.”

“Fine,” said Stiles, though he wasn’t happy about it. But if he couldn’t go after his dad right now, he needed to at least do _something_.

“I’ll go with you,” said Jackson, very unexpectedly.

“Thanks, Jackson,” said Scott, “but--”

“If you let him drive that piece of shit Jeep, he’s going to go straight after the Darach,” said Jackson. “If you drive, he’s going to run before you even make it out of the parking lot. You need someone else there.”

Stiles cursed under his breath. Jackson clearly knew him a little too well now.

“Besides,” said Jackson. “Derek’s my… Derek’s still my alpha. He’ll believe me.”

“Okay,” said Scott before Stiles could protest. “Let’s go.”

Jackson finally let Stiles go, though Stiles noticed that Jackson watched him carefully and made him leave first. On his way out the door, Stiles crouched down to pick up his dad’s sheriff badge, which Miss Blake had crushed, and tucked it safely in his pocket.

* * *

JACKSON

McCall drove Stiles’ Jeep (because the three of them couldn’t fit comfortably in Jackson’s car) with Jackson and Stiles in the back. There was no way Jackson was going to let Stiles out of his sight right now. The Darach had taken the most important person in the world to Stiles. Just because Jackson and McCall had been able to convince him not to go after it for now didn’t mean that Stiles wouldn’t break away and go rogue at some point. And if he did that, McCall was going to need all the help he could get to keep Stiles from getting himself killed. After all, almost getting himself killed was something Stiles _excelled_ at.

Jackson called Derek on the way to the loft. He hated asking Derek to leave Cora, especially when Derek had promised not to, but this wasn’t a conversation they should have at the hospital. Besides, if the Darach wanted to talk to Derek, the most likely place it would look for him was the loft. In the end, Derek agreed to meet them there.

When they were all there, Jackson listened in silence while McCall explained the details of the situation Jackson had outlined on the phone to Derek: the chaos at the recital, Miss Blake being the Darach and how she’d tried to kill Lydia (which was why Lydia had screamed), abducting the sheriff, etc. But even though Jackson heard the words spoken between McCall and Derek, his focus was trained on the boy who was sitting next to him on the steps near the loft’s front door.

Stiles was so scared. It must’ve been obvious to Derek and McCall, too, but Jackson could feel it in his gut, like a physical pain. Every vital sign and signal coming off Stiles screamed a combination of fear and despair. He wasn’t even angry anymore. It was like deep down he was already half-convinced that his dad was dead.

And maybe he was. After all, they didn’t have a stellar record on saving the Darach’s sacrifices...

Jackson desperately wanted to do or say something to stop Stiles’ internal freakout, but really, what could possibly make a difference? So Jackson just sat there in silence, waiting.

It seemed to Jackson that McCall had made a pretty compelling case, especially with Stiles and Jackson there to back him up, but Derek was clearly reluctant to believe them. He must have become closer to Miss Blake than any of them had realized. Leave it to Derek to fall for a mass-murderer. Again.

Derek’s expression was unreadable after McCall had finished his story.

“She’ll be here soon,” said Derek. “You guys should stay out of sight until I talk to her.”

* * *

DEREK

It hadn’t taken Derek long to break his promise not to leave Cora. Jackson had called him just after leaving the school, saying that Jennifer was the Darach and that she had tried to kill Lydia and then taken Stiles’ father as the next sacrifice.

Even though Jackson’s tone had the ring of truth in it, Derek hadn’t wanted to believe it. He also hadn’t been sure if he could let himself leave his sister. What if something happened to her while he was gone? He would never be able to forgive himself.

But just as he had been at the point of telling Jackson that he couldn’t go, Cora had stirred. She had heard what Jackson had said on the other end of the line.

“Go help them, Derek,” she had said weakly. “You’re no good to anyone here.”

“But--”

“Just do it, okay? For me.”

Very reluctantly, Derek had agreed. He told Jackson that he would meet him, Scott, and Stiles at the loft. Then he had called Peter and asked (well, demanded) that he come watch over Cora. While Derek was waiting for Peter to arrive, Jennifer had called. She had sounded upset and asked if she could talk to him in person. Derek had told her to meet him at the loft in an hour. He didn’t tell her his reasoning, but an hour would give him enough time to get back home and hear Scott’s, Stiles’, and Jackson’s side of the story before he saw Jennifer again.

She showed up right on time.

He let her hug him, let her confess that something had happened at the school, beg him to promise to listen to her.

He promised. But when she kissed him, he couldn’t keep up the act. Something about her desperation felt false. He didn’t kiss her back. And when she noticed and pulled away from him, her expression turned dark.

“They’re already here, aren’t they.”

Derek looked over his shoulder. The three boys emerged from the other room: Scott serious and determined, Jackson cold and detached, Stiles looking like an absolute wreck.

“Where’s my dad?” Stiles asked Jennifer. His voice quavered pitifully and a tear slid down his cheek.

Derek had always thought that Stiles looked young and boyish, but not like this. Not like a lost, helpless kid. Becoming a werewolf, though it had strengthened Stiles physically, had clearly dealt him a deep blow, but he had been doing better. Derek was honestly impressed by how well he’d been doing, actually. Now he was worse than he had been before.

“How should I know?” said Jennifer, like the very idea that Stiles would ask her was ridiculous. She turned to Derek. “Derek, tell me you don’t believe this.”

He wanted to tell her that. He wanted not to believe that she was a monster, that she had done something so terrible. That she had murdered a dozen people and planned on killing more. And Derek was delusional (and desperate) enough to give her a chance to explain. If Jennifer wasn’t who Derek had thought she was, that meant that Derek had fucked up. That meant he was just as naive and selfish as he had been when he was sixteen years old.

“Do you know what happened to Stiles’ father?”

Her pulse was too even, her tone too earnest when she said, “No.”

“Ask her why she almost killed Lydia,” said Scott.

“Lydia Martin? I don’t know anything about that!”

“What _do_ you know?” Derek snapped.

Jennifer played innocent, but accusing Scott and Stiles of making up a story about her was not the right way to convince Derek that she was telling the truth. Scott was one of the most honest people Derek had ever met, and though Stiles was good at lying, he usually only did it to protect people. They wouldn’t have any reason to make up something like this, and Jackson wouldn’t back them up if he didn’t believe them, too.

“Derek,” Jackson said quietly, “you said you were on my side.”

Jackson’s implicit plea was the nail in the coffin. Derek didn’t even need Scott’s proof--powdered mistletoe, which transformed Jennifer’s face into a monster’s--to make up his mind.

Jennifer tried to run, but Derek got his hand around her neck. His claws extended, pressing into the soft flesh there. Thinking about how he had kissed that skin made Derek feel sick now, and not just because of what she really looked like underneath the beautiful, seemingly innocent illusion.

“Derek wait, wait!” she choked out. “You need me!”

“What are you?” Derek growled.

“The only person who can save your sister,” Jennifer gasped, struggling in Derek’s grasp. “Call Peter. Call him!”

Without letting go of Jennifer’s neck, Derek pulled out his phone from his pocket and called Peter. Peter told Derek Cora’s condition: she was vomiting black blood and mistletoe.

Derek saw red. His hand tightened around Jennifer’s neck.

“Derek!” Scott warned. “Derek, what are you doing?”

“Her life--” Jennifer gasped for air again. “It’s in my hands!”

Any pity Derek might have had for Jennifer vanished. It was horrifying enough that she was behind all of the so-called sacrifices, but now she had poisoned his sister. She was holding Cora’s life hostage to save her own skin. Derek wouldn’t have thought her capable of that, but then, it had been the same with Kate, hadn’t it? Maybe Jennifer had just been pretending to love him.

Why, though? What did she have to gain by it? Why the fuck would she go out of her way to make him care about her? Derek was so fucking sick of being used, of being lied to, of being betrayed. The truth of this settled in his bones, and he felt something snap. His hand was tightening around her neck, his eyes hazing over.

“Stop,” said Stiles, more of a plea than an order. “Derek, stop!”

“Stilinski,” said Jennifer. “You’ll never find him.”

“Please, Derek,” Stiles said desperately. “I can’t-- I can’t lose my dad.”

“Derek!” Jackson shouted.

There was an unexpected fierceness in his voice, and Derek’s head turned automatically to look at him. Jackson’s eyes were glowing.

“We need her,” said Jackson. Calmly, reasonably, though there was still fury in his eyes. It was clear that Jackson wanted to choke the life out of Jennifer almost as badly as Derek did.

Jackson’s solidarity had a surprisingly calming effect on Derek. The alpha in Derek listened to his beta, and Derek let his cousin’s logic overpower his rage. He threw Jennifer down to the ground.

He would make the smart decision for now. He would make Jennifer cure Cora. Then, if the alpha pack didn’t kill her, he’d do it himself.

* * *

STILES

Scott and Jackson still didn’t trust Stiles to drive, so Scott got behind the wheel again and Jackson stayed in the back with Stiles for the drive to the hospital. Stiles had no intention of running, though; it was clear now that (much as he hated it) the best chance they had of finding his dad was to give in to Miss Blake’s--Jennifer’s--the Darach’s-- _whoever’s_ demands. Besides, Stiles didn’t want Cora to die, either.

When they got out of the Jeep, Stiles grabbed the wooden baseball bat he had ‘borrowed’ from Melissa the last time he’d been at Scott’s house. He still had his aluminum one at home, but he had figured it would be good to have a mobile weapon as well. Plus, you never knew when a friendly neighborhood pick-up game might break out, right?

“What’s that?” said Scott, eyeing the bat. “You’ve got your own weapons now, dude.”

“Yeah, and I’m not exactly thrilled about the idea of going full-on psycho ‘violence is totally awesome’ wolf in the middle of a building full of sick and injured people,” said Stiles. “Especially in the presence of someone who even Human Stiles _seriously_ wants to _murder_ right now.”

“He’s got a point,” said Jackson, who was, of course, intimately familiar with the dark side of Stiles’ werewolfness (if it even had a not-dark side).

“Damned straight,” said Stiles, hefting the weight of the bat in his hand. It felt a lot lighter to him now that he was a werewolf. “This was good enough for me as a scrawny human. Should be even better now, with new-and-improved wolf strength, right?”

“Fair enough,” said Scott, and led the way into the hospital, where they met up with Derek and Jennifer.

It was absolute mayhem inside. Melissa told them that the building was being evacuated, and that they had to get Cora out as soon as possible, hopefully on one of the two remaining ambulances that were on their way back. They all (minus Melissa) took the elevator to the second floor (super smart in a lightning storm, by the way), but Cora’s bed was empty. There was also an alarming trail of black blood on the floor leading out into the hallway.

Then Peter, true to his nature, made a dramatic entrance by bursting backward through the nearest set of double doors and sliding on his back to a halt at Derek’s feet. The reason for the violent sliding was clear when the twins (in their uberalpha form) turned toward them. Stiles could see through the door that Cora was crumpled on the floor behind it--them--whatever.

Derek rushed the double-threat alpha, and soon there was full-on mayhem in the hallway, with some of them fighting the twins and the others trying to get Cora to safety. Peter scooped her up, and Stiles followed him as a guard--because it wasn’t like the twins were likely to be the only alphas in the building--while Jackson helped Scott and Derek.

Stiles had a moment of ill-conceived attempted heroism, during which he completely destroyed Melissa’s baseball bat over the uberalpha’s head (to no effect whatsoever) and Scott had to bash a fluorescent ceiling light fixture into its face. That slowed it down long enough for them to put some more distance between themselves and certain death.

They got Cora to a relatively safe-seeming room full of medical supplies, where they confirmed that yes, Cora was in very, very bad shape. And apparently (because _of course_ she would), Miss Blake had managed to escape back into the elevator while everyone else was risking their asses for her and Cora. Meaning that not only did they have the twins after them, they also didn’t have the one person who could save Cora, which was the entire reason they were there in the first place.

Derek chose the moment of this revelation to tell Stiles to be quiet, at which point Stiles kind of lost his shit. He did _not_ have the patience for Derek’s overbearing bullshit right now, especially considering Derek’s role in this entire situation.

“Me be quiet, _me_? Huh?” Stiles drew himself up to his full height and got right in Derek’s face. “Are you telling _me_ what to do now? When your psychotic mass-murdering girlfriend--the second one you’ve dated, by the way--has got my dad somewhere tied up waiting to be ritually sacrificed!”

“Stiles, they’re still out there,” Scott hissed.

Stiles rounded on Scott. “And they want _her_ , right? Which means now we don’t have her either, so now my dad _and Cora_ are both dead!”

Predictably, Scott got all ‘there’s always a way,’ and this was, of course, the perfect moment for Jennifer to magically reappear and reassert the fact that she was holding Cora’s and his dad’s lives hostage so that the ‘good’ werewolves would protect her from the alphas. This did not help Stiles’ resolve not to wolf out.

Neither did hearing Melissa’s voice over the PA system. Serving as a mouthpiece for Deucalion.

Scott was clearly terrified (which Stiles could _completely_ relate to), but at the same time he was still determined to save Jennifer, to save Cora and Stiles’ dad in turn. Jennifer somehow managed to convince Scott that Deucalion wasn’t going to hurt Melissa because of the whole True Alpha thing--Peter enjoyed hearing about that in a way that made Stiles uneasy--and it was decided upon (not by Stiles) that Peter and Scott would distract the twins while the rest of them went down to the basement garage to get Cora into the last ambulance.

What could possibly go wrong?

* * *

JACKSON

The five of them (four conscious, one carried in Derek’s arms) raced down the stairs to the basement garage. The last ambulance was there, waiting for them, just as Melissa had said. Stiles opened the back doors and Jackson helped him get Cora onto the stretcher inside. He and Stiles were busy getting Cora settled in when Jackson heard Miss Blake’s voice from outside.

“Derek, over here.”

Derek moved away from the ambulance to where she was. He didn’t say anything. That was not a good sign. It was only then that Jackson smelled blood. It suddenly occurred to him that there should have been a driver waiting with the ambulance.

Then a voice echoed through off the concrete walls. “Julia…”

Oh, fuck.

Jackson moved to leave the ambulance and help Derek, but Stiles grabbed his arm to stop him. Jackson looked back at Stiles, confused. Why wouldn’t Stiles want to help Derek? Derek would need all the help he could get if he was going up against Kali.

Stiles put a finger to his own lips and gave Jackson an earnest look that said, ‘Trust me.’ Reluctantly, Jackson sat back down, and Stiles quietly closed the ambulance doors. He was clearly banking on the fact that, distracted by Derek, Kali might not have noticed that they were in there.

Jackson pressed his ear against the wall of the ambulance behind his head.

“You can’t beat her on your own,” Miss Blake said to Derek.

Yeah, no shit.

“That’s why we’re going to run,” said Derek. It might’ve been the smartest thing Jackson had ever heard Derek say.

Two sets of footsteps quickly retreated back toward the inside of the hospital, soon followed by a third (barefoot) pair.

When the sound of footsteps had faded, Jackson took a few deep breaths and relaxed against the wall. They were safe, at least for the moment. It wasn’t until Jackson had calmed his own breath that he realized he could only hear one other person in the ambulance breathing.

“Stiles,” said Jackson, staring down at Cora. “Stiles?”

“Huh?” Stiles said distractedly. He was still looking out the window, like he’d somehow see something that they couldn’t hear.

“Cora.” Jackson strained his hearing, then placed his palm on Cora’s chest, over her ribs, to see if he could feel anything. “She’s not breathing.”

Stiles whirled around, looking from Cora to Jackson and back again. He put his hand over her ribs as well.

“Oh, God. No, no, no,” said Stiles, looking panicked. “Why is she not breathing?”

“How the fuck should I know?” Jackson snapped, starting to panic as well. He had been on the swim team; they had been required to learn CPR, multiple times. But he couldn’t remember how to do it. It was like the information had just vanished from his brain.

“Fuck, okay,” said Stiles. “Okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.” He took a deep breath and pushed Jackson’s arms away from Cora. Then he started muttering to himself, reciting the steps of CPR as he worked his way through them. When it didn’t work the first time, he started talking to Cora, repeating “Come on.”

He tried again. “Come on. Come on, Cora!”

Jackson watched, heart in his throat, mentally echoing Stiles: _Come on, Cora, please. Please don’t give up. You can’t die. I can’t do this without you. Come on, Cora, come on!_

Then there was a loud cough that might have been the most beautiful sound Jackson had ever heard. Stiles sat back to give Cora room as her coughing subsided and she started breathing again. She was still unconscious and her breath was labored, but she was alive.

Jackson took Cora’s hand in his and squeezed it. He could only hold on for a few seconds because of the pain, but he hoped it would help a little.

The minutes ticked by while Jackson and Stiles sat there on either side of Cora, watching her breathe, listening for any signs that her condition was somehow improving, or (much more likely) deteriorating. A few times, Jackson thought about thanking Stiles, or telling him how impressed he was that Stiles had stayed cool under pressure (when Jackson hadn't been able to), but he couldn't find a way to do it that didn't feel awkward.

“You know,” Stiles said thoughtfully, “the last time we were locked in a vehicle together, you were handcuffed and had no shirt on. I think I liked that a little better than this.”

In spite of himself, Jackson felt the corner of his mouth turn up very slightly. He glanced up from Cora to look at Stiles.

“A little, huh?”

There was the shadow of a smile on Stiles’ mouth as well. “Just a little.”

“Did you really put pants on me while I was unconscious?” Jackson asked, remembering a very annoyed Stiles with much shorter hair snapping at Jackson about how unpleasant the experience had been.

“Oh, yes,” said Stiles. “Which, in retrospect, goes against everything I believe in. Plus putting them on is _way_ harder and a lot less fun than taking them off.”

Jackson actually laughed at that. A reflex that was completely inappropriate for their current situation. But Stiles laughed, too, and they shared a few precious seconds of relief from the insanity of living under the constant threat of themselves or their loved ones being brutally murdered.

Then the moment passed. Both of them lapsed into silence and looked down at Cora. Jackson knew that Stiles could hear how faint Cora’s pulse was and how shallow her breathing, just like Jackson could. Stiles had saved her a few minutes ago, but how long until she needed CPR again? How long until it stopped working? They hadn’t done anything at all to make her better except promise to protect the monster who had made her sick in the first place. The Darach was holding Cora’s life at ransom to save herself, and there was nothing any of them could do except give in to her demands. And what if… What if Derek couldn’t protect her? What would happen to Cora then?

When Stiles spoke next, it was in a soft, detached voice. Like he was talking more to himself than to Jackson.

“You know, I actually used to be the one with the plan. Well, or at least a plan B,” he amended. “Now, I dunno, now I’m thinking maybe she was right. Maybe we are pretty much useless. Maybe all we really do is show up and find the bodies.”

It was clear that Stiles wasn’t expecting a response, so Jackson said nothing. He fixed his eyes determinedly on Cora’s face, remembering those words she had said right after she’d nearly gotten her head bashed in when she’d attacked one of the twins. After Stiles had stopped Jackson from attacking him, too.

There was a small, pitiful sniffling noise from Stiles before he spoke again:

“I don’t want to find my father’s body.”

Inwardly, Jackson cursed werewolves’ ability to sense chemo signals. He didn’t want to feel how sad and scared and defeated Stiles was. It made Jackson again feel the desperate urge to fix this somehow, to make Stiles stop hurting, stop being afraid. But he knew the only way Stiles would be convinced that his dad was okay would be to see him alive for himself, and that wasn’t likely to happen any time soon. At this rate, it wasn’t likely to happen at all.

Jackson was on the verge of doing something very stupid. Something that would reopen a door that was getting harder and harder to push closed. He could feel the muscles in his right arm itching to move, to lift his hand and grip Stiles’ shoulder, like Isaac had done for Jackson when they had thought that Derek was dead. To provide some small measure of comfort.

A low growl rumbled outside of the ambulance, and Jackson saw a shadow pass by the window. It was the twins in their combined alpha form. Both he and Stiles sunk down a little lower, like that would save them if the twins caught their scent or heard them. By some miracle, though, the twins didn’t come near the ambulance. Either they didn’t notice Stiles and Jackson, or they were more focused on finding Derek and the Darach.

There was another minute or two of silence. Then they heard the soft sounds of someone advancing toward them. Maybe the twins had come back after all. Stiles raised his head, and Jackson followed suit just in time for McCall to scare the shit out of both of them by showing up at the window. With Peter. Perfect.

“Stiles, open the door!” McCall shouted. Stiles did as asked, and he and Jackson (reluctantly, on Jackson’s part) helped get Peter into the ambulance.

“Where’s Derek and Jennifer?” said Stiles.

“I have to go back for them, and my mom,” said McCall.

“Okay, there’s two problems,” said Stiles, clearly exasperated. “Kali’s got the keys to this thing, and we just saw the twins like thirty seconds ago.”

McCall looked around at the empty garage, then ordered them all to “Stay here” and went back into the hospital.

Stay here. Right. Just sit in the back of an ambulance with his dying cousin and the guy he was fucking and his psychopathic birth father, and wait for someone to save them. Awesome.

Unsurprisingly, it was an awkward few minutes. Jackson busied himself by focusing on Cora’s vital signs while Peter made a big show of how he’d gotten injured helping McCall distract the twins. Stiles was fidgeting incessantly, tapping his foot and chewing on his fingernails. This definitely didn’t help Jackson’s already agitated state. He was just about to tell Stiles to knock it the fuck off when the sound of a motor and screeching tires combined with glaring headlights made all of them look toward the ambulance door. It was Isaac in Argent’s car.

Peter reached for Cora, but Jackson got to her first and hauled her up into his arms. As carefully as he could, he got Cora out of the ambulance and into the back of the car. Peter followed, with Stiles last. Except Stiles wasn’t leaving the ambulance.

“Stiles, let’s go!” Isaac shouted at Stiles once everyone else was in the car.

But Stiles wasn’t listening. Jackson craned his neck so he could look out the back window of the car. Stiles was staring at something near the ambulance door. Then, without warning, he bolted and raced back toward the door leading into the hospital.

“Stiles!” Isaac called after him.

“What the hell is he doing?” Jackson asked Isaac.

“I have no fucking idea.” Isaac’s tone was exasperated, but there was a note of worry in it. Much as he tried to hide it, Isaac wasn’t completely indifferent to Stiles.

“We have to go,” Peter insisted. “The twins could be back any second.”

“But--” Jackson protested.

“If you want to risk your ass going after your kamikaze boyfriend, be my guest,” Peter snapped, “but those of us with some sense of self-preservation are leaving. Now.”

Isaac hesitated by the driver’s side door, clearly torn. “If Stiles gets hurt, Scott--”

“Christ, how many teenage boys are screwing each other around here?” Peter growled his impatience. “Isaac. Get in the car.”

Isaac seemed about to argue, but then changed his mind. He got back in the driver’s seat and slammed the door. The sound of it echoed in Jackson’s ears, unnervingly final.

Whatever idiotic suicide mission Stiles had decided to take, he was on his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: Season 3A, Ep. 10 (Sorry for all the plot summary and use of canon dialogue in this chapter, but it had to be done. I tried to keep it short and/or interesting, where I could.)
> 
> Oh my God YES I have finally posted a new chapter! Suuuch a relief! I am SO sorry for how long this took, seriously, but between moving across the country and a long family vacation and starting a PhD program, it's been kind of (really) insane, and it kept me from being able to do stuff that's crucial to the writing process, like re-watch episodes and take notes. The good news is that I have officially re-watched and taken notes all the way through the end of episode 12, so now all that remains is to, you know, write...
> 
> Once again I offer you a piece of shameless self-promotion and say that if you haven't done so already, I hope you'll check out the Jackson/Isaac fic that I'm co-writing with the very talented [Savannah_Clover](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Savannah_Clover). We just posted the eighteenth chapter, and we update weekly. The fic is called _The Strength of the Wolf_ and it can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3703403).
> 
> Many thanks to [Ismene_Jane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ismene_Jane) for being a wonderful beta, and thank you all for your patience, your views, kudos, and comments. I seriously appreciate every one of them!


	27. Vitality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: VITALITY

STILES

The rooftop was empty except for Stiles, standing alone like an idiot. He had said everything he could think of to try to get Scott not to go. It wasn’t much, granted, but Stiles hadn’t thought he’d need to prepare an eloquent speech for the unlikely event that his best friend would join a pack of homicidal alpha werewolves, so in the end Stiles had had to improvise.

Scott had left with Deucalion. The words ran through Stiles’ head in a loop, but he still couldn’t entirely convince himself that they were true. He also couldn’t help but remember what they’d said to each other in Miss Blake’s classroom earlier:

_Scott, we both know that if it was your mom--_

_That I’d want to do something stupid, too. And we both know that you’d try to stop me._

Scott had been right, of course. The difference was that Scott had succeeded in talking Stiles down from doing said stupid thing. Stiles? Not so much.

If Stiles had just realized a little sooner that ‘Guardians’ meant parents, not protectors, maybe this wouldn’t’ve happened. Maybe Melissa would be safe and Scott would be here and the Darach wouldn’t be one step closer to killing Stiles’ dad. Maybe--

No. Stiles needed to _do_ something. The others should be long gone with Cora by now, but Derek might still be there. Maybe Stiles couldn’t do much to improve the situation, but he could at least keep it from getting worse.

Stiles practically launched himself down the stairs, back to where Derek was indeed still lying unconscious on the floor of the elevator, where the Darach must’ve knocked him out cold before escaping and going after Melissa.

“Derek?” Stiles shook Derek’s shoulder, but there was no response. “Derek!”

Stiles shook Derek more violently, but he still didn’t stir. Stiles began saying his name more loudly, progressing to smacking Derek across the face. “Derek! Derek, come on!”

Desperate times called for desperate measures. Stiles balled his hand up into a fist and pulled his arm back to swing, but just as he was bringing it back down toward Derek’s face, Derek’s hand wrapped around Stiles’ wrist. Fucking _finally_.

Derek, understandably disoriented, immediately began asking questions.

“Where is she?”

“Jennifer? She’s gone, with Scott’s mom.”

By the expression on Derek’s face, realization had started to dawn on him. “She took her?”

“Yeah,” said Stiles, “and if that’s not enough of a kick to the balls, Scott left with Deucalion. Okay? So we gotta get you out of here. Police are coming, right now. We gotta get you the hell out of here.”

Stiles clasped Derek’s hand and hauled him up.

“What about Cora?” Derek asked, the confusion in his eyes slowly turning to fear.

“She’s okay,” said Stiles, though he added mentally, _I think_. “Isaac got her, Jackson, and Peter out. You need to get your car and go meet them so you can get Cora somewhere safe while we figure out how to find the Darach.”

The words coming out of Stiles’ mouth made it sound so easy. Like it was a brilliant plan and he knew exactly how to execute it. In reality, right now he was just trying to figure out what the hell he was going to tell the cops in a few minutes.

When Derek didn’t move, Stiles snapped his fingers in front of Derek’s eyes. “Hey! You listening to me? You need to go. _Now_. I can hear the cop cars.”

“Right,” said Derek, seeming to finally come to his senses. “Okay. Call me when you’re done here.”

Ninety seconds after Derek left, Stiles heard an unpleasantly familiar voice from behind him.

“A Stilinski at the center of this whole mess. What a shocker.”

The fucking FBI was back. Perfect. Just fucking _perfect_.

* * *

JACKSON 

Cora was unconscious, but every now and then she would cough weakly, bringing black blood to her lips. Her breath was so shallow and labored it hurt to listen to. Derek sat at Cora’s left side while Jackson stood at the other side of the bed, alternating between looking at Cora and staring out the window, like he would somehow glance back to find that she was miraculously healed.

No one had really spoken to each other since they had gotten Cora into Derek’s car, leaving the Argents on their own and Stiles with the cops back at the hospital. It was a long, silent vigil of four people worrying about one person in a big concrete and brick room together. Isaac had been alternating between pacing back and forth near the front steps and wandering aimlessly around the loft like he was looking for something that he had just seen a few minutes ago, but couldn’t find now.

A full hour went by before Isaac apparently decided that he couldn’t take it anymore. He stopped pacing abruptly behind Derek and said, almost like he was accusing Derek of causing it:

“She’s dying, isn’t she?”

Without looking up from Cora, Derek said, “I don’t know.”

It was a lie. Cora was dying; they all knew it. Isaac was just the only one who had the guts (or the stupidity) to say it out loud.

“So what are you going to do?” Isaac demanded.

Derek paused before answering. “I don’t know.”

Well, at least that one was true.

“Wanna figure something out?” Isaac was getting angrier by the second. “Because while Scott and Stiles were out there, trying to help people from being killed, you were in here, rolling around the sheets with the actual killer. Do you get how many people she’s killed? Erica and Boyd are _dead_ , Cora is dying, and you are doing _nothing_.”

The words were so harsh they almost made Jackson wince, yet Derek said nothing, keeping his eyes fixed on Cora’s unconscious face.

“Why’d you do this to us, Derek?” Isaac asked. His anger had fallen into sad frustration, and he was close to crying now. “Was it all about the power? Were you bored?” He hesitated before the next question. “Were you lonely?”

 _Why’d you do this to us?_ The question struck Jackson almost like a physical pain. He had never considered, at least not really, the difference between himself and Derek’s other betas: Derek had chosen them. For whatever reason, out of selfish motivation or not, Derek had found Isaac, Erica, and Boyd, and had offered them the Bite. Jackson had begged, bargained, threatened until Derek had given it to him. Derek didn’t owe Jackson anything.

But he did owe something to Isaac.

Derek turned his head and looked up at Isaac. “Maybe.”

Isaac made a sound of disgust and began walking away toward the door.

“I told Cora I wouldn’t leave,” said Derek. He was trying to make Isaac understand. “I’ll help the others when I figure out how to help her.”

Isaac suddenly whirled back around and shouted at Derek, “There’s no time! The full moon’s coming, the sheriff and Melissa are gonna be dead, so I’m gonna try and help them! You can sit here and perfect the art of doing nothing.” He slid the door to the loft open, but stopped before walking through it. He looked to Jackson. “Well?”

“Well what?” said Jackson, caught off guard.

“Are you coming, or not?”

Jackson’s eyes shifted from Isaac to Derek, then to Cora. He didn’t want to leave her. He had this feeling, deep in his gut, that if he left now, it would be the last time he would see her alive. But when it came down to it, Jackson agreed with Isaac: there was nothing they could do to help if they stayed here. Stiles’ dad and McCall’s mom needed help. Jackson and Isaac could actually do something about that. And with McCall gone, someone needed to keep Stiles from doing something stupid (again). Jackson was always gone when people needed him, always showing up too late. Maybe this time it could be different.

Resolved, Jackson leaned over the bed and pressed his palm to Cora’s feverish cheek, drawing some of her pain through her skin as he brushed his thumb over her cheekbone. He wouldn’t say goodbye. She couldn’t hear him now anyway. But he lowered his head and nuzzled his face into her hair, breathed her scent in. The scent of pack, masked by illness and pain, but still there.

Then he got up and walked over to the door. He gave Derek one last apologetic glance, then followed Isaac out.

As soon as they got down to the street, Isaac took off in what seemed to Jackson to be no particular direction.

“I assume you have a plan?” Jackson called after him. Somehow, though, he doubted it.

Isaac stopped and turned back to Jackson. “We need to find Scott.”

“We know where McCall is,” said Jackson. “He’s with the alpha pack. Who will probably kill us if we get near them, or capture us and make Derek kill us later.”

“We have to try,” Isaac said stubbornly, and kept walking. Jackson followed him this time and caught up.

“We really don’t,” said Jackson. “He doesn’t want to talk to us. Nothing we say is going to change his mind. You’re just going to have to wait for him to call.”

“And what if he doesn’t call, huh?” Isaac was fueled by the same rage he’d let loose on Derek. “I’m just supposed to let him play right into Deucalion’s hands?”

“Why do you even care, anyway?”

Jackson really didn’t get it. It made sense for Isaac to be worried about Cora and want Derek to do something to help her, but Isaac didn’t used to give a shit about anyone outside the pack. In the past, he would’ve stayed and tried to convince Derek to come up with a plan. Wouldn’t he?

“Derek’s being an idiot,” Isaac spat.

“And you’re a friggin’ hypocrite!” Jackson snapped. “You would’ve been fine if Derek had thrown me out of the pack because I didn’t blindly follow his orders, and now you bitch him out and leave?”

“Yeah? Well, if you’re such a good beta, then why’d you follow me instead of staying with Derek?”

“I never said I was a good beta,” said Jackson.

It was true: Jackson had never really been a good beta. Not to Derek, anyway. Not in the way the others had. But Isaac had been the perfect beta, to the point of stupidity. He had followed Derek’s commands without question. Jackson was pretty sure that there had been a point where Isaac would’ve died for Derek. Now it looked like he might be willing to die for McCall.

When had that happened? Jackson knew that Isaac had gone to live at McCall’s place after Derek had kicked him out, but Isaac had still come back with Boyd to help defend Derek from the alpha pack. He had still come to help Cora. He was still part of their pack. Wasn’t he?

Isaac heaved a deep sigh. “Look, I… I’m grateful to Derek for everything he did for me. And I care about the pack. I really do. But...” Isaac hesitated, like the words he was about to say were painful to get out. “Derek’s not good at being an alpha. He tries, but… he wasn’t ready. There’s stuff he just can’t give us.” Isaac shifted awkwardly and looked away. “You figured that out a long time before I did.”

 _Stuff he just can’t give us_. Jackson remembered what it had felt like the first time Stiles had told him that he was good. When it came down to it, it hadn’t been about the sex. Not really. If anything, Cora had proven that to him. All Jackson had needed from Derek was approval. He still craved it, still had some hope that when this was all over and they were safe, Derek would be able to give it to him. That they could be a real pack. A family.

But it sounded like Isaac didn’t want to be a part of that anymore. He didn’t want to be with the Hales. He wanted a new alpha. A new pack. He wanted to be with McCall.

“Anyway,” Isaac continued when Jackson didn’t say anything. “I told you why I’m here. Why are you here? It’s not like you care about what happens to Scott.”

Isaac was trying to get Jackson to say it. Jackson didn’t really give a shit about McCall and, though Melissa was a nice person, Jackson wouldn’t risk his life for her or anything, but he… He couldn’t stand the thought of what it would do to Stiles to lose his dad. It probably wasn’t an understatement to say that it would destroy him. And then Stiles might destroy a few other people in the process if he let his wolf loose.

“Stopping the Darach is our best chance at saving Cora.”

“Probably,” said Isaac, “but that’s not really an answer.”

“Fuck off,” said Jackson, though there wasn’t much heat in it. He was tired of fighting with his packmate. He was tired of fighting at all. Tired of fear and violence and uncertainty. He stopped walking.

Isaac only shook his head, stopping beside Jackson. Jackson could sense that same tiredness in Isaac. That bone-deep tiredness of people who’ve been through more than they can handle, but still have to keep going, because they’re terrified of what will happen if they don’t.

Like Isaac had done for him when they’d thought Derek was dead, Jackson reached out his hand and put it on Isaac’s shoulder, gripping it briefly as a sign of solidarity. A sign of pack. Even with all the confusion over allegiances and loyalties, the connection was still there. And just like Jackson had done back then, Isaac covered Jackson’s wrist with his hand before they broke contact.

“I just want all this shit to be over,” Jackson finally admitted. “I’m so fucking sick of it.”

“That’s the problem, though,” said Isaac, his tone grim. “It _is_ gonna be over soon. The question now is... how many of us are going to still be around when it’s done?”

* * *

DEREK 

Cora was so pale. Sweat coated her skin even though she was shivering, and Derek could hear every wheezy breath her lungs struggled to take.

He took more of her pain. She wouldn’t want him to, but he did it anyway. It was painful _not_ to take it. With every second he held on to Cora, her breathing became easier. Just a little bit more…

“Careful,” Peter warned.

Reluctantly, Derek let go of Cora. His hands were shaking from the pain. He didn’t care.

“Don’t worry,” said Derek. “I know going too far could kill me.”

“That’s not exactly what I meant,” said Peter. His voice had that familiar ‘there’s something I’m not telling you’ tone to it.

Derek looked up at Peter. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Peter said dismissively. “It’s not important.”

“You wouldn’t’ve brought it up if it wasn’t important,” said Derek. His patience was thin enough without Peter being evasive. “Tell me.”

“I…” Peter hesitated, probably just for effect (typical), then finally agreed.

He told Derek that he had heard there was something an alpha could do to ‘heal their own.’ They could use the ‘spark of power’ that makes them an alpha, that makes them different from their betas. Stronger. That extra power might be able to help Cora.

“If I can save her--”

“If,” Peter interrupted him. “ _If_. I didn’t say it works every time. It could just as easily kill you.”

Derek looked back at Cora. Was she worth dying for? Absolutely. He didn’t care if she would never forgive him. He’d die for her in a second.

“How do I do it?” he asked Peter. “By taking her pain?”

“And then some,” Peter said ominously. “Because there’s a cost.”

“Get to the point already,” Derek growled. “What’s the cost?”

Peter sighed deeply, like he was going to regret what he was about to say, but he relented. “It’s the spark.”

The spark. The thing that made Derek an alpha. That meant…

“If I heal her, I won’t be an alpha anymore.”

“Bingo,” said Peter.

“Fine,” said Derek. “Tell me how to do it.”

He didn’t need to think about it. He’d sacrifice more for his sister than power. What was the point of being an alpha if all his betas were dead? Wasn’t that exactly what the alpha pack wanted? Derek alone, all his betas gone?

“I can understand not seeing a downside to this, as you haven’t exactly been Alpha of the Year,” said Peter, “but think about what else you’d be losing.”

“You think I give a fuck about power anymore?” Derek snarled. “My sister is dying. _Your niece_ is dying. This is an easy decision, Peter.”

“What about the power to fight back?” said Peter. “The full moon is still tomorrow night, and if you couldn’t beat Kali as an alpha, how do you think you’re going to fare as a beta?”

“I don’t care,” Derek said firmly. “If I wait until after tomorrow night, Cora will be dead. There won’t be much left to fight for if that happens.”

“What about Isaac and Jackson?”

“They left.” Derek could hear the bitterness in his own voice. “You were here for that.”

“Teenagers are impulsive and temperamental,” said Peter. “They’re still your betas.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Derek. “Scott’s an alpha now. He’d probably be a better alpha for them anyway. They’d be safer with him.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that they’re your betas right now. Deucalion’s pack could still make you kill them.”

Derek was silent for a moment. Peter’s logic seemed sound. It didn’t matter how Isaac and Jackson felt about him Derek right now. They were still a part of his pack. But…

“If I wasn’t an alpha anymore, they wouldn’t be my betas,” said Derek. “They’d be free, and I’d be useless to Deucalion. I couldn’t join his pack.

“How can you be sure they wouldn’t still kill them, and you, and Cora for that matter, just to spite you?”

“I don’t,” said Derek. “But it’s still the best option.”

“What if this was exactly what Jennifer was hoping for?” Peter insisted. “She would know the only way for you to save Cora would be giving up your power. Maybe that’s what she was going to have you do at the hospital.”

“Why?”

“So that you wouldn’t be able to face the alphas without her,” said Peter. “She wants you to come to her. It’s all part of her little seduction, and she is _still_ seducing you. She needs you on her side.”

“I don’t care,” Derek repeated.

The thought that Jennifer had poisoned Cora to get Derek to support her was horrifying, but at this point, it wasn’t surprising. It didn’t matter if Jennifer had played Derek. He couldn’t change that. All he could do was deal with the situation in front of him. Even if it meant working with the person who had caused it.

* * *

STILES 

Dawn found Stiles at the Argents’ condo. Scott’s dad had questioned him for over an hour, but Stiles hadn’t told him anything. In fact, Stiles had gotten more useful information from Scott’s dad than the other way around. Agent McCall had pointed Stiles to the word spraypainted on the elevator doors: ‘ARGENT.’

Stiles had called Allison immediately and driven over to meet up with her and her dad. If Chris Argent was the Darach’s next target, then the best plan for catching her would be to stay near him.

But for a guy whose calling in life was hunting and killing monsters, Chris Argent didn’t seem to be taking the possibility of one of them targeting his life very seriously--Even when Allison pointed out to him that the parents of her boyfriend and her boyfriend’s best friend had already been abducted. Oh, and that his name was spraypainted on several hospital elevator doors.

Still, at least the guy was proactive. He busted out some seriously well-researched info on telluric currents and potential places to hide a sheriff and a nurse. Of course, there were too many potential places for one group to check out in time. They were going to have to split up. They were also going to need as much help as they could get.

“What about Lydia?” Allison suggested.

Chris gave her an incredulous look. “Lydia? What can she do?”

Oh, right. All Chris knew about Lydia was that she was a popular high school girl, his daughter’s friend, and that she had nearly been brutally murdered less than a day ago. Hmm, how to put this...

“Uh, Lydia’s got sort of a talent,” said Stiles. “She somehow ended up finding a couple of the bodies, um, without actually looking for them.”

Chris snorted. “What is she, psychic?”

Stiles gave the only explanation they’d been able to come up with: “She’s something.”

In the end, they all agreed that Stiles would go to Lydia’s house before school and see if she had any ideas, while Allison and her dad prepped the offensive. Which apparently meant loading and packing up a small arsenal of weapons. The room practically reeked of metal and gun oil after a few minutes of that.

Just as Stiles was getting ready to leave, he suddenly registered a sound in the hall. He was about to warn Allison and Chris when Isaac’s head appeared in the doorway.

“We were, uh, wondering if you could use some extra teeth and claws,” Isaac said hesitantly.

“We?” Chris raised an eyebrow at him.

Stiles caught a whiff of the familiar scent even before Jackson stepped out from behind Isaac. Jackson didn’t say anything, just sort of stood there awkwardly, daring someone to ask him why he was being helpful. Stiles suppressed a smile. God help him, it was _cute_.

“Right,” said Chris. “Jackson, you know Lydia, right?”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Isaac drawled, which earned him a glare from Jackson.

“Then Jackson, you go with Stiles to talk to Lydia. Isaac, you come with Allison and me. We’re going to check the bank vault to see if the Darach might be keeping Melissa and the sheriff there.

“Cool,” said Stiles. He was eager to actually _do_ something after all this planning. “I’m driving.”

Allison gave Stiles a goodbye hug (never a good sign of confidence), but seemed to think better of doing the same to Jackson after assessing his expression.

“We’ll call if we figure anything out,” Stiles promised Chris. Then he and Jackson left.

Jackson remained silent throughout the drive to Lydia’s house, though at Stiles’ request he texted Lydia to give her a heads-up that they were coming. He looked about as exhausted as Stiles felt, except without the crippling anxiety that was no doubt coming off of Stiles in waves. Stiles was uncontrollably bouncing his left leg while driving with his right one, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel even more incessantly than usual.

Surprisingly, Jackson didn’t comment on it.

Lydia’s mom let them in, though she seemed even more surprised to see Jackson than Stiles (and not very happy about it). It hadn’t occurred to Stiles that Lydia’s mother might not be particularly excited to see the boy who had unceremoniously dumped her daughter and fled to a foreign country. _Awkward_.

“What’s going on?” Lydia asked them when they got to her room. She was understandably alarmed.

“Long story,” said Stiles. “The short version is that the Darach took Melissa, so Scott joined Deucalion’s pack because Deucalion convinced him that he could help. So now we need your help finding where Melissa and my dad are. Chris, Allison, and Isaac went to the bank vault to see if they’re there, but there are a bunch of other places on the telluric currents where they could be, and we don’t have time to check them all.”

Lydia stared at Stiles, shocked. “I don’t believe it. Scott can’t really be with them. He can’t be.”

“You didn’t see the look on his face, though,” said Stiles. “It was…” He trailed off. There weren’t really words to describe the combination of fear and defeat on Scott’s face when he’d left.

“Then what can I do?” Lydia’s eyes darted from Stiles to Jackson and back again. “I mean, I get that I’m some kind of, like, human Geiger counter for death, but I don’t know how to turn it on and off yet. All I know is that she tried to kill me because of--”

Lydia cut herself off, staring at a point off to Stiles’ side like she’d just realized something important.

“Because of what?” Jackson asked when Lydia didn’t continue.

Stiles tried to get her to look at him. “Hey, Lydia. Because of what?”

Lydia finally met his eyes. “When she called me a banshee, she was surprised by it. What if that’s not why she tried to kill me?”

“Then why did she?” Jackson asked.

“That’s what we need to find out,” said Lydia.

Lydia quickly gathered her school things and she drove her car to school while Stiles and Jackson took the Jeep. It was incredibly surreal trying to sit through classes like it was just any ordinary school day, but if they all kept skipping, someone was bound to notice that something was going on. Plus, they didn’t have any leads at this point, so unfortunately, most of what they’d be doing today was waiting for people to contact them.

“Aidan isn’t texting me back,” Lydia told Stiles in the hall between classes. Jackson was grabbing books from his locker down a hallway around the corner.

Stiles looked around, completely at a loss. They were starting to run out of ideas and it was getting harder and harder to maintain some semblance of optimism.

“Okay,” said Lydia, “well, maybe we could just... We could go over there, and--”

Stiles’ phone buzzed in his pocket. He reached for it, praying it was Scott saying he was coming back, or maybe Chris, Allison, and Isaac had found his dad and Melissa at the bank.

The text was from Isaac. But it wasn’t good news.

“What?” said Lydia, alarmed by the expression on Stiles’ face. “Oh, God. What is it now?”

“It’s from Isaac,” said Stiles. “Jennifer, she-- She has Allison’s father. She took him. She’s got all three now.”

Lydia looked stricken for a moment, but she quickly pulled herself together. “There’s still time. We still have time, right?”

Stiles fumbled to get his phone back in his pocket. He couldn’t understand why it was so difficult until after he’d done it and held out his hand to look at it. It was shaking.

Well, _fuck_. Stiles could feel his breathing start to become shallow and erratic: a familiar sensation from long ago. His heart was racing, vision blurring, his sense of balance becoming precarious.

“Lydia, you have to get away from me,” he gasped.

Stiles’ mind was racing, trying to come up with a place he could hide, to get away from all these people until he recovered. He hadn’t thought werewolves could _get_ panic attacks. It had never even occurred to him. And a panic attack happening to a werewolf who had issues with control on a good day was probably a very dangerous situation to happen in a building full of squishy, easily mauled humans.

“Stiles, are you okay?” Lydia was getting closer to him, not farther away. “What is it? What’s wrong? Stiles!”

“I’m having--” Stiles took a shaky breath. “I’m having a fucking panic attack.”

He looked up at Lydia and she swore under her breath. To his horror, Stiles realized why: his eyes were burning. Which meant that they were glowing gold, and that he was in danger of wolfing out. He shut them tightly.

“Fuck,” he said. Now his legs were shaking, too. “ _Fuck_. Uhhh, okay, I need you to help me get away from these people.”

“Where?” she asked, voice frantic.

“Locker room,” said Stiles, gasping and desperately trying to find his anchor. There wouldn’t be anyone in there for sports practice or P.E. in the morning. The basement would be safer, but it was a lot farther away.

“Okay,” said Lydia. “Okay, stay close to me. I’ll lead you there.”

Lydia took Stiles’ hand and quickly-but-carefully led him--his eyes were still shut tight--down to the locker room. Once they were in, she shut and locked the door, and Stiles finally opened his eyes. They were still burning, and the tips of his fingers were itching like his claws were trying to break through.

 _I’m human. I’m human, I’m human, I’m human_.

“You need to go,” Stiles said firmly between shallow breaths. “My control sucks. I could hurt you.”

“And you could hurt _yourself_ ,” said Lydia. “Let me help you.”

Stiles shook his head vehemently, which caused him to stumble into the nearest bank of lockers. He slid down and sat with his back braced against them. Despite his protestations, Lydia sank to her knees in front of him and tried to get him to look at her.

“Oh God, okay, just... try and slow your breathing,” she said.

“I can’t.” Stiles squeezed his eyes shut again. He was shaking all over now. His heart was pounding so hard and fast it felt like it was either going to burst down into his lungs or out through his chest. “I can’t!”

Warm palms pressed against either side of his face.

“Stiles, look at me,” said Lydia. She shushed him gently. “Look at me. Shhh, Stiles.”

He wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t look at her with his golden eyes. She needed to leave. He’d hurt her if she didn’t leave. His anchor wasn’t working and he didn’t know what to do.

Then, suddenly and definitely unexpectedly, she was kissing him. Lydia’s lips--warm and full and soft and unfamiliar--were pressed to his. And it was it was impossible and under awful circumstances and not at all like he’d fantasized about thousands of times, but she was beautiful and smart and caring, and it had nothing to do with sexual attraction anymore. Less than a year ago Lydia would’ve been utterly repelled by the idea of kissing Stiles. Now she was doing it to help him. Lydia was his friend and she cared about him. It should have been a disappointment considering how he used to feel about her, but it was somehow it felt like it was exactly what it was meant to be.

When the kiss broke, Stiles finally opened his eyes. He could tell, not only from the way they felt but the way Lydia was smiling, that they weren’t glowing anymore. He was still feeling the unpleasant adrenaline rush caused by the panic attack--that would have to run its course, he knew--but he didn’t feel like he was in danger of letting the wolf loose anymore.

Stiles stared at Lydia in amazement. “How did you do that?”

Lydia flushed. “I, uh, I read once that holding your breath could stop a panic attack. So… when I kissed you, you held your breath.”

“I did?”

She laughed a little--the kind of laugh you make when you’ve just avoided a very dangerous situation. “Yeah, you did.”

Stiles couldn’t help but laugh, too. “Thanks. That was really smart.”

There was a low growl from several feet behind Lydia. Stiles started, convinced it was one of the alphas. What other werewolf would be after him right now, for that matter?

...Oh. Apparently Jackson was done getting his books from his locker. He must’ve gone looking for Stiles and Lydia and heard Stiles’ freakout.

“Jackson…” Stiles said warily. Jackson was advancing on them, glaring at Lydia, teeth bared (though thankfully not sharp).

Lydia turned toward Jackson and rolled her eyes.

“Did you just _growl_ at me because I kissed your boy toy?” she asked. “Jackson, that might be the most adorable thing you have ever done.”

But Jackson was not amused. In fact, his eyes started glowing bright blue, and he took a step closer to Lydia. Uh-oh.

“Jackson,” Stiles said firmly. Jackson immediately turned away from Lydia and locked his glowing eyes with Stiles’.

Well, there was one surefire way to nip this in the bud before Jackson wolfed out on Lydia. Stiles pushed himself shakily to his feet and stood between them. Then he got hold of the front of Jackson’s shirt and pulled Jackson toward him for a kiss.

Stiles didn’t give a fuck that Lydia was two feet away; he nipped at Jackson’s lower lip and slid his tongue in his mouth and kissed him so obscenely he was pretty sure Jackson would kill him for it later since Lydia was there. But Stiles didn’t stop until he felt the tension leave Jackson’s muscles and the scent of his anger faded. When Stiles broke the kiss, Jackson’s eyes were dazed, but not glowing anymore.

“Not gonna lie,” Lydia said smugly as she got to her feet behind Stiles, “you two are kind of hot together.”

* * *

JACKSON 

The flush in Jackson’s skin undermined the glare he directed at Lydia.

“Hey, uh, Lydia?” said Stiles. Jackson’s eyes followed Stiles’ as he looked down at his own hands where they were braced on Jackson’s chest. They were visibly shaking. Stiles’ breathing was significantly better now, but from the shaking and the sound of his pulse, Jackson could tell that his body was still working through the last of the panic attack.

“Yes?” she asked sweetly.

“Could you give us like five minutes? I know we need to figure out what to do next, but I just…” Stiles took a slow, deep breath. “Five minutes, okay? Then we’ll come find you.”

Lydia didn’t ask any questions. She just nodded (still a little smug) and said, “I’ll meet you by the stairs. Take your time.”

When Lydia had left the locker room, Stiles turned to Jackson.

“Look, I need to do something that’s kind of fucked up considering the circumstances, and I know every minute counts right now and I’m wasting time, but I just need five minutes. It’s okay to take five minutes, right?”

“To do what?” Jackson asked, more than a little confused.

Instead of answering, Stiles grabbed the hair at the back of Jackson’s head and kissed him, fierce and hungry. Jackson was so caught off guard that he stumbled backward into the lockers, his back colliding painfully with the metal. Stiles stayed close, trapping Jackson there with his body, deepening the kiss.

Stiles’ lips tasted a little like Lydia’s, which was the most surreal thought Jackson had had in a good long while. It caused a small surge of possessiveness to surface again, but Stiles’ enthusiasm soon quelled it. Even the wolf in Jackson understood that Stiles wanted Jackson over anyone else, and that knowledge went a long way.

The little whine of loss Jackson made when Stiles broke the kiss was kind of pathetic, but Jackson found it difficult to care.

“Not gonna to do anything to you,” Stiles promised breathlessly. “No time, and I’m not _that_ messed up right now, I just… I just need to know I _could_. Does that make sense?”

Jackson gave Stiles a slow nod. It did make sense, in a Stiles Logic kind of way. Stiles was panicking. His entire life was falling down around him. He needed to control something, and Jackson was the one thing Stiles knew he could control. Honestly, Jackson was fine with that. Being controlled actually sounded pretty good right now.

“Is that okay?” There was a note of desperation in Stiles’ tone. “Tell me it’s okay. I don’t wanna use you or anything but I just--”

“It’s okay,” Jackson murmured hazily, because it really was okay. More than okay, in Jackson’s opinion, now that he was already halfway into submission. “Don’t wanna think anyway.”

Stiles made a noise of profound relief and kissed Jackson again. His fingers tightened in Jackson’s hair, and his other hand gripped Jackson’s hip. Jackson’s knees were weakening, to the point where he was sure that if Stiles weren’t pinning him upright, he would fall.

Coherent thought started to fade when Stiles’ mouth moved to Jackson’s neck, licking, sucking, biting the skin there, worrying bruises into it and then soothing them while they healed. No sharp teeth, though, no wolfishness. Just the old Stiles, hungry to dominate, to help both of them find peace, if only for a few minutes.

Stiles’ mouth was at Jackson’s ear now, hot breath puffing against it. It made Jackson shiver.

“If I told you to get on your knees right now and suck me off, what would you say?” Stiles whispered.

“Yes,” Jackson said without hesitation. The thought of it made Jackson shiver, and he could tell Stiles was affected, too, especially when Jackson’s answer caused Stiles to grind his hips forward into Jackson’s.

“Good,” Stiles said hotly against Jackson’s ear. “What if I wanted you to go over to the showers, strip, and get yourself off while I watched?”

“Yes,” said Jackson. The mental image--being exposed, vulnerable, objectified like that in front of Stiles--made his cheeks burn.

“Good,” Stiles repeated. He grinded his hips into Jackson’s again, causing both of them to groan.

“If I said I was gonna fuck you?”

“Yes,” said Jackson, starting to feel a little desperate.

“Even right here?”

“Yes.”

“Right now?”

“Yes,” Jackson gasped. And he meant it. He would do anything Stiles wanted right now. He was too far gone to be embarrassed or consider the consequences.

“Good,” Stiles said again. His grip on Jackson’s hair slackened, and he smoothed it down with his hand. “Good. We can’t right now, but you’re so good.”

Disappointment doused the fire of _want_ in Jackson. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Jackson knew, logically, that Stiles was right. They couldn’t. Jackson had known that from the beginning. Stiles had told him he wasn’t going to do anything to Jackson. But it was so easy to forget, when Stiles made him get lost like that. That was, after all, the appeal of it.

Stiles must have sensed how Jackson was feeling, because he ran his fingers through Jackson’s hair again and kissed him, more gently this time. When the kiss broke, Stiles made Jackson meet his eyes.

“You did everything right,” Stiles whispered. “That was exactly what I needed. You’re good, Jackson. You’re perfect.”

Jackson let his eyes slide closed, replaying the words in his head until he believed them. Stiles hadn’t stopped because Jackson had done something wrong. They just couldn’t do anything right now. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.

There were a few moments of silence where they both just breathed, Jackson letting Stiles’ praise and scent soothe him and slowly coming back to himself while Stiles slowly pet his hair and waited patiently for the moment when Jackson had recovered.

It looked like it took Stiles physical effort to make himself pull away, and he actually staggered back a step before he regained his footing. Jackson stumbled, too, without Stiles there to hold him up anymore, but they both righted themselves and began straightening out their clothing. They probably reeked of arousal, but at least Lydia wouldn’t be able to smell it. And if any of the other werewolves smelled it later, fuck ‘em. There were more important things to worry about.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said awkwardly. “I’ll make it up to you, when this shit is over.”

“It’s fine,” said Jackson. “Feel better?”

“Yeah,” said Stiles. They both looked down at Stiles’ hands. The shaking was gone. “So, was that kind of really fucked up?”

“Definitely,” said Jackson. He had to struggle to keep from smiling. “You seriously need therapy.”

“Been there, done that,” said Stiles. “After what happened with Matt, they made us all talk to Ms. Morrell to--” He cut himself off. There was that faraway look in his eyes that usually happened when he’d had an epiphany.

“Ms. Morrell…” he muttered. “We need to get Lydia. I have an idea.”

Without any further explanation, he shot off out of the locker room and toward the stairs, with Jackson following on his heels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: First part of Season 3A, Ep. 11. Again lots of canon dialogue and plot summary in this chapter. Hope that wasn't annoying/boring! Slowly moving toward the end of the canon stuff. So close!
> 
> Hey, it didn't take me forever to update! Feels good :D AND this chapter is a long one! Double win.
> 
> Once again I offer you a piece of shameless self-promotion and say that if you haven't done so already, I hope you'll check out the Jackson/Isaac fic that I'm co-writing with the very talented [Savannah_Clover](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Savannah_Clover). We just posted the twenty-first chapter, and we update weekly. The fic is called _The Strength of the Wolf_ and it can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3703403).
> 
> Many thanks to [Ismene_Jane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ismene_Jane) for being a wonderful beta (She turned this one around SUPER fast!), and thank you all for your patience, your views, kudos, and comments. I seriously appreciate every one of them!


	28. Necessity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: NECESSITY

STILES

Lydia had this almost imperceptible smile quirking up the corner of her lips when Stiles and Jackson met up with her by the stairs. In a parallel universe, Stiles might have been bothered that he had let the girl he used to be madly in love with see him give her ex-boyfriend an obscene kiss after Stiles and the girl had just had their first (and likely only) kiss moments before, but honestly, given the current state of affairs in Beacon Hills, that kind of situation was like a nice break from the insanity that had become their status quo. Embarrassment was practically pleasant when you put it up against the constant threat of imminent, excruciating death. Let Lydia be smug. If that was the worst backlash he and Jackson experienced after everything they’d put her through, they were getting off easy.

“Where’s Ms. Morrell?” Stiles asked Lydia urgently.

“Um, in her office, I think?” said Lydia. “I don’t know where else she’d be.”

“We need to find her,” said Stiles. “Right now.”

The three of them hurried to the guidance counselor’s office, but all they found was Heather’s friend Danielle, who said Morrell was twenty minutes late for her appointment, and that she was never late. Well, _that_ wasn’t suspicious or alarming at all.

“Then she’s not late,” said Stiles. “She’s missing.”

Lydia frowned, clearly worried. “What if we’re not the only ones who think she knows some things?”

“Then I wanna know what she knows.” Stiles went over to Ms. Morrell’s desk and started rifling through the drawers that weren’t locked. Danielle and Lydia protested that the files were private, and Danielle left, citing that she didn’t want to get caught with a bunch of people who were looking through private information in a teacher’s office. Jackson had no such hang-ups, however, and went to help.

“What are we looking for?” he asked Stiles.

“I dunno,” said Stiles. “Anything that looks weird or suspicious, I guess.”

“That pretty much describes half of what happens in this town,” Jackson drawled.

“Yeah, well, this isn’t exactly a well thought-out plan,” Stiles said irritably as he shuffled through various students’ files, “but I’m working with what I got here.”

“That one’s yours,” Jackson said to Lydia, holding it out. This immediately stopped her protestations. She snatched her file from his hand and started leafing through it. Stiles happened to glance at some of the papers as she perused them.

“Wait, Lydia, that’s your drawing,” said Stiles. He stopped what he was doing and moved to stand next to her.

“Yeah, I know,” she said with a shrug. “It’s a tree.”

Stiles shook his head. “No, but that’s the same one, though.”

“Same as what?” Lydia asked.

She was completely unfazed as realization started to dawn on Stiles. This wasn’t just a doodle. This was banshee shit. Which meant that it was a clue.

“The same one I always see you drawing in class.”

“It’s a tree,” said Lydia dismissively. “I like drawing trees.”

“No, but it’s the _exact same one_ ,” Stiles insisted. “Don’t you see? Hey, gimme your bag.”

Stiles grabbed Lydia’s bookbag and pulled one of her notebooks out of it. He quickly flipped through the pages and found another sketch of a tree. It was identical to the ones in Lydia’s counseling folder. It was also identical to the one she had drawn when he and Cora had been trying to get her to help them find Deaton after he’d been taken by the Darach.

“There, see?” said Stiles, pointing at another instance of the bare tree in her notebook.

Jackson had stopped looking through folders, too, and was standing on Lydia’s other side. Lydia and Stiles compared the sketches, and then Stiles continued turning the pages in the notebook. Page after page, the same sketch kept appearing. Different pen colors, different sizes, but it was always the same, right down to the shape and placement of each thin branch.

“What is this?” Lydia asked, clearly starting to get freaked out.

Stiles stared at one of the sketches, mind whirling, cycling through a dozen possibilities at lightning speed, until a nagging memory surged to the front. Slowly, he swiveled the notebook so the image of the tree was upside-down.

Everything fell into place in one jarring moment. It wasn’t a tree. It was tree roots.

“I know where they are.”

There were a few seconds of expectant silence before Jackson prompted Stiles to explain. “Are you planning on telling us anytime soon?”

Stiles handed Lydia back her notebook, didn’t even bother to put the files away, and went back out to the hallway with Lydia and Jackson following.

“Stiles?” said Lydia. “Stiles, slow down. You need to explain what’s going on.”

Stiles whirled around to face them. “It’s the Nemeton,” said Stiles. “That’s where she’s keeping them. It has to be.”

“Okay, so where is it?” said Jackson.

“That’s the problem,” said Stiles. “I have no idea.” He turned to Lydia. “I don’t suppose your artistic inspiration came with a sense of the physical location of your creepy upside-down dead tree roots?”

“It doesn’t work like that,” said Lydia. “I never know where I’m supposed to go until I get there.”

“And you don’t have any unreasonable urge to go for a random drive right now?”

Lydia shook her head, frowning.

Stiles sighed deeply. “Okay. We need to talk to Derek. He and Peter, they’ve been there before, so they’ll know where it is. It’s in the root cellar where...”

When he didn’t finish, Jackson did it for him: “Where Paige died.”

There was a pause, then Lydia said, “Hang on.”

“What?” said Stiles.

“You said Derek and Peter.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you mean... Peter Hale? Derek’s uncle?”

Stiles blinked at her, confused. “Do we know any other Peters?”

“Stiles,” said Jackson. He glanced at Lydia, who looked stricken for some reason Stiles couldn’t figure out, until Jackson explained, “She didn’t know he’s alive.”

“...Fuck,” said Stiles, turning to Lydia. “Shit, Lydia, I didn’t even-- I thought you knew. Things have been kind of insane lately and--”

“It’s fine,” Lydia said shortly.

“But--”

“I said it’s _fine_ , Stiles. There are more important things to worry about right now.”

Stiles and Jackson shared a glance, and Lydia rolled her eyes. “And you two can stop making those worried puppy faces like I’m some fragile little girl.”

“Right,” said Stiles. “Sorry.”

“We should go,” said Jackson.

Either the security at school had become more lax recently, or they had just gotten better at sneaking out of school, because it only took them a few minutes to get out to the parking lot without incident. They all sat in Stiles’ Jeep (as stealthily as possible) while Stiles called Derek.

“Stiles?” Derek’s voice sounded concerned, which made sense considering that his sister was dying and a pack of murderous alpha werewolves had him on their hit list. Besides, when exactly had any of them called another one lately with good news? “What happened?”

“We’re okay,” said Stiles, “but I have a question for you and Peter.”

It turned out that neither Derek nor Peter had an answer for them, though. Apparently Derek’s mom had taken their memories of the Nemeton away from Derek and Peter after what had happened with Paige because it was dangerous and she didn’t want him going back there. How very (in)convenient.

Jackson had already relayed the information to Lydia by the time Stiles hung up (because Jackson could hear Derek’s voice on the line).

“But then, how are we supposed to find it?” she asked with an anxious frown.

“I don’t know.” Stiles rubbed at his face, beyond frustrated now. Why couldn’t anything ever be easy? “I have no fucking idea.”

“What about Deaton?” Jackson said unexpectedly.

“Why would--” Stiles cut himself off. Of course. Of _course_ Deaton! He had helped Isaac remember stuff before, right? And he knew all that emissary shit. Hell, maybe he’d even _been_ to the Nemeton. Why hadn’t Stiles thought of that? The stress of racing against the clock to save his dad was clearly starting to wear on him.

“Lydia,” said Stiles, “drive your car over to the animal clinic. We’ll meet you there, okay?”

Lydia nodded and got out of the Jeep. Stiles turned the key in the ignition and the engine roared to life. Then he grabbed the front of Jackson’s shirt and hauled him in for a rough kiss. Jackson reciprocated, but looked utterly confused and a little embarrassed when it broke.

“You’re a fucking genius,” Stiles said before Jackson could ask any questions. Then he buckled his seatbelt, threw the transmission into reverse, and headed out of the parking lot.

* * *

JACKSON 

After Deaton laid out his insane plan for finding the Nemeton, Stiles and Deaton went to the woods to meet up with McCall, because what part of that idea could possibly go wrong? Jackson had considered offering to go with them--he still didn’t trust Stiles not to go off on his own or do something stupid around the alpha pack--but Isaac had made that offer first, and Deaton had insisted that the fewer people went, the better.

So Jackson, Isaac, Lydia, and Allison stayed at the clinic and filled up three big tubs with ice water, like they’d done when they’d been trying to get Isaac to remember what had happened to him when he’d been captured by the alpha pack. Had that really only been a month ago? So much had happened since then.

Deaton and Stiles were gone a lot longer than the rest of them had expected, and after two hours Jackson was pacing back and forth, Lydia was chewing nervously at her lower lip, and Isaac was staring into one of the tubs blankly in complete silence while Allison hovered next to Isaac, glancing at his face every now and then, looking worried.

When they finally did get back, McCall was with them.

“Sorry,” said Stiles. “Deaton said we needed stuff that belonged to our parents, so we figured we’d grab it on the way back.”

“Do you have anything of your dad’s?” McCall asked Allison.

“Not with me,” she said. Her voice was quiet and she didn’t quite meet McCall’s eyes.

“I’ll go with her to their place,” Isaac said immediately, before anyone could suggest something else. “You can catch Scott up on the plan while we’re gone.”

McCall frowned when they left without saying goodbye. “Are they okay? I thought…”

“You thought they’d be happy to see you after you abandoned them to run off on a suicide mission?” Stiles said pointedly, but he softened his words by patting Scott on the shoulder. “They’ll get over it. I did. Mostly.”

The next half hour was spent with everyone quietly worrying, making sure the ice tubs were ready when it was pretty clear that they already were. Then Allison and Isaac were back, and it was time to put the worst idea anyone had ever had into motion.

Stiles, McCall, and Allison took off their jackets and shoes while Deaton asked them to explain the objects belonging to their parents that they had brought. Something in Jackson’s chest ached for a moment when Stiles presented his dad’s sheriff badge, which Stiles had tried to carefully bend back into its original shape after Miss Blake had crushed it. The fear and despair in Stiles were becoming apparent again.

Allison had some kind of ceremonial silver bullet that her dad had made, and McCall had his mom’s watch or something. Jackson kind of didn’t give a shit. If they were going to go forward with this very, _very_ bad plan, he’d rather they just get it over with.

“Okay,” said Deaton, “the three of you will get in, and each of us will hold you down until you are essentially, well, dead. But it’s not just someone to hold you under. It needs to be someone who can pull you back. Someone that has a strong connection to you. A kind of emotional tether.”

There was a moment of awkward silence where no one seemed to know where to go. Isaac was looking back and forth between Allison and McCall, and Jackson was really starting to get confused about what was going on between Allison and Isaac, because as far as Jackson knew, Allison and McCall were still together, and Allison wasn’t the kind of girl who would cheat. Was she?

But the pairings were soon sorted out: the two friends, the alpha and the beta, and… whatever Jackson and Stiles were. After that, all that was left to do was for Stiles, Allison, and McCall to get into the tubs, clutching the mementos of each of their parents. Once they were sitting in the freezing water, McCall looked up at Isaac and nodded that he was ready. Allison gave Lydia an encouraging smile, and Isaac and Lydia seemed prepared now, but Jackson...

This went against every instinct within Jackson. He couldn’t do it. They were asking too much of Jackson, making him risk killing someone else. He had enough blood on his hands without adding Stiles’ to the pool.

“Hey,” Stiles said from the ice bath. He was shivering, his voice shaky. He motioned for Jackson to kneel down so they’d be at the same level. Jackson obeyed, and Stiles locked eyes with him. “You can do this. A part of you’s wanted to kill me for years, right?”

Stiles was trying to lighten the mood, but it wasn’t working.

“I can’t,” said Jackson, so quietly he wasn’t quite sure the words had made it out of his mouth.

“Yes, you can,” said Stiles. He gave Jackson a weak smile. “I don’t know about ‘emotional tethers,’ but I got last pick, so I’m stuck with you.”

Jackson tried to look away, but Stiles pressed two fingers to Jackson’s jaw and turned his face back. Stiles’ hand was cold and smelled like the metal of the tub.

“I need you to do this, Jackson,” Stiles said seriously. His eyes caught Jackson’s again and held them.

The note of authority in Stiles’ tone sparked a small flicker of submission in Jackson. Stiles clearly knew exactly what he was doing; he was using Jackson’s submissiveness to get him to agree to do something Jackson didn’t want to do. Jackson would’ve felt manipulated if he hadn’t realized that Stiles was trying to help him. It was easier for Jackson to do things when Stiles told him to do them. Stiles wanted to make this easier for Jackson. It had to be done either way.

Reluctantly, Jackson nodded.

“Good,” Stiles whispered, and gave Jackson a small, sincere smile.

Jackson felt unnaturally calm as he got back to his feet and stood at the head of the middle tub.

“By the way,” Stiles said to McCall, “if I don’t make it back and you do, you should probably know something. Your dad’s in town.”

McCall’s eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t say anything in response. It seemed like this was a conversation that was better saved for a time when they weren’t about to potentially kill themselves.

Then it was time, and there was nothing for Jackson to do except what Stiles had told him to do. Jackson had never hated his heightened senses more than when he was drowning Stiles. He could hear the strain in Stiles’ lungs, the frantic beating of his heart, then everything slowing to a crawl. Dangerously slow, barely discernable. Close to death.

Jackson kept his hands on Stiles’ shoulders for a full minute after Stiles stopped moving. He couldn’t take his eyes off of Stiles’ face, distorted by the water. When Jackson finally let go of Stiles and looked up, he saw that Isaac and Lydia had stepped away from McCall’s and Allison’s tubs as well.

Deaton gave Jackson, Isaac, and Lydia sympathetic nods, then went to the other room. Apparently he didn’t want to watch this. Jackson couldn’t leave, though. He needed to be able to hear if Stiles’ heart stopped. He needed to be able to intervene if it all went wrong.

Isaac must have been having the same thought, because he had started pacing back and forth between McCall’s tub and Allison’s, face grim with worry. Isaac’s heart was beating hard and fast, though his outward appearance was calm. He didn’t want anyone to know how panicked he was. Jackson remembered then that Isaac had already been through this process, back when they had needed Isaac to remember what he’d seen when he’d been abducted by the alpha pack. Isaac’s own drowning had been much more violent, with Derek yelling at a terrified Isaac to the point where Jackson had needed to step away so he could cope with the instinctual backlash of his alpha appearing to be angry with one of his packmates.

“It’ll be okay,” said Lydia, as much to herself as to Jackson or Isaac.

Now all they could do was wait.

Jackson felt a strange numbness settle over himself. A fatigue, rather than the antsiness Isaac was clearly experiencing. He went to the nearest corner and sat down on the ground, back braced against the wall, and closed his eyes. Not so he could sleep, just so he wouldn’t have to look at the depressing room that smelled like antiseptic and medications and stainless steel.

The trade-off was that he became more aware of sounds: three dangerously slow heartbeats in the tubs, plus the rabbiting of Isaac’s heart and the sound of his pacing steps echoing off the tile floor, and Lydia just radiating nervousness in every possible way. There were quieter sounds from nearby rooms: sleeping cats and dogs, the scratch of Deaton’s pen on paper, a ticking clock.

Jackson had become so lost in the sounds after a few minutes that he was startled when Lydia sat down next to him, close enough that her arm touched his. He opened his eyes to look at her, and she gave him a sad smile. Then she laid her head against his shoulder.

In a rush, the _feeling_ of him and Lydia together, as a couple, came back to Jackson. Sense memory caused him to put his arm around her shoulders like he used to and hold her against his side. He focused on her scent, stronger and more complex than when he’d been human. It called forth a dozen flashes of the times he had spent in her bed. Good times. Happy times, even. Not just sex. Something else, that Jackson had never allowed himself to accept. Something that had scared him, that had made him feel weak. He’d always hated feeling weak.

It was only now, since Stiles, that Jackson had finally come to understand the difference between weakness and vulnerability. And the strength it takes to let yourself be vulnerable. He found himself wishing that he had understood that when he had been with Lydia; not necessarily to save their relationship, but at least so he wouldn’t have been cruel to her. She hadn’t deserved the way he had treated her.

“Lydia, I… I never thanked you.”

The words escaped Jackson’s mouth without him really being conscious of them. It wasn’t until Lydia made a sort of dismissive sound (as if to say, ‘Don’t worry about it.’) and shrugged against his side that Jackson was sure he had said them out loud.

Jackson took a deep breath and sighed it out before continuing: “I treated you like shit and you still… You saved me. Not just my life. And I didn’t thank you. And then I left. I’m such a fucking asshole.”

An awkward silence stretched between them, during which Jackson very much regretted having said anything, before Lydia spoke again.

“You are absolutely a complete asshole,” she agreed. “But even assholes are worth saving sometimes.”

There was another, shorter pause, and then they both laughed. It was so strange to laugh in that moment, especially with Stiles, Allison, and McCall on the brink of death, so close to them, and Isaac so clearly trying not to freak out. But it felt good anyway.

When the laughter faded, Jackson pressed his face into Lydia’s hair. He inhaled her familiar scent deeply, then kissed the top of her head. He murmured a quiet “Thanks” before pulling back and resting his head against the wall.

His and Lydia’s relationship had ended badly, and it had been Jackson’s fault. A part of him had known that at the time, and he was painfully aware of it now. But there was a reason that Lydia had been the one to bring him back from the edge of death, freed him from the Kanima. Lydia had felt something for Jackson that no one else had felt. Something he hadn’t been able to feel for her, at least not as deeply as she had felt it, even though she had deserved it.

Jackson owed Lydia more than he would ever be able to repay. For better or worse, Jackson was where he was now, _who_ he was now, because of Lydia. And in spite of all of the darkness and pain and fear, it felt like it was for the better.

In any case, he wouldn’t trade it.

* * *

DEREK 

Cora was worse. Derek could hear her heart and lungs straining. She was gasping for breath, struggling to inhale as she coughed up more black blood. She wasn’t just at death’s door; she was halfway through it.

“It’s gotta be now,” said Derek. “I don’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice,” said Peter. “It’s whether or not you can live with the consequences. Facing Kali as a beta.”

Peter’s voice was so calm, so rational. It infuriated Derek. How could Peter be so unaffected when his niece was suffering and dying a few feet away from him?

And why did he keep harping on about how fucked Derek would be if he had to face Kali without his alpha strength? Even _with_ his strength Derek hadn’t been a match for Kali so far. And besides--

Derek’s eyes widened as he suddenly remembered an important detail that Peter was overlooking.

“Yeah, but it’s not just the full moon coming,” said Derek. “It’s a lunar eclipse. We’ll all be powerless.”

This seemed to give Peter pause, but only for a moment.

“Derek, an eclipse lasts a few _minutes_. We’re talking about the rest of your life here, and if you do this, that life probably won’t be very long.”

“And if I don’t, Cora’s life ends now,” said Derek.

He had decided. It was a gamble, but it was still the best option. Derek wasn’t going to let his little sister die. Not when he knew there was something he could do that had even a remote possibility of saving her. If they both died, then at least he wouldn’t have to live the rest of his life wondering whether he could’ve saved her. He already had plenty of those questions to live with.

Cora gave another pitiful cough, spurring Derek into action. He curled both of his hands around her forearm. Pain blossomed in his fingers, in his palms, his wrists, spreading up his arms as the black lines traced his veins. The pain flowed into his chest, his lungs, his heart, his head. And there was a moment where Derek was completely certain that he had failed, that he was going to die in agony, and that Cora would follow him.

But then another sensation began to build within Derek. Even as the pain flowed into him, something else began to flow out. It was the ‘spark.’ Derek felt the power leave him, burning in his blood, then draining out, into Cora, pushing life back into her, dissolving the power of Jennifer’s curse, healing her. Through the overwhelming pain, he felt a flicker of hope.

He screamed, but it came out as a roar: the last alpha roar he would ever emit. His eyes burned, and he knew they were glowing alpha red. And then they instantly cooled somehow. Like a flame being snuffed out.

Derek collapsed onto the cold concrete floor. He didn’t even have the chance to see whether it had worked before he fell unconscious.

* * *

JACKSON 

It had been hours. Jackson had stopped keeping track of how _many_ hours after the fifth one. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but he wasn’t hungry. Lydia had fallen asleep against his side after three hours, and by the fourth he had helped her shift down so that she could lie with her head in his lap (he had even laid his jacket on the floor for her like a gentleman).

Now he had his eyes closed again and was absently running his fingers through her hair--something he had always liked doing but she had pretended to be annoyed with when they’d been dating--and being grateful for the fact that Isaac had finally stopped pacing.

Jackson had almost succeeded in not thinking about Stiles for at least thirty seconds when he suddenly heard something--or _felt_ something; Jackson wasn’t quite sure if there had actually been anything audible--that vibrated palpably through his bones.

Jackson sat bolt upright, eyes snapping open.

“Derek!”

He didn’t realize that someone else had shouted the name at the exact same time until Isaac rushed into the room, eyes wide with panic.

“You felt it, too?” he asked Jackson.

Jackson could only nod, dumbstruck by the unidentifiable sensation, which was most definitely not a positive one. It didn’t hurt, exactly, but there was a kind of _wrongness_ to it. Like everything had shifted, and the perspective was off. It was disorienting and unnerving. And though Jackson had no idea how he knew it, he was sure that it had something to do with Derek.

Lydia made a confused, sleepy sound at the commotion and sat up so Jackson could move more freely, but Jackson didn’t get up. He was so disoriented that he thought he might fall down if he tried to stand.

“What happened to him?” Isaac looked down accusingly at Jackson, like he had all the answers and was just refusing to tell Isaac.

“How the fuck would I know?” said Jackson. The uneasiness in him was beginning to build on top of the anxiousness he was already feeling about Stiles. “Where’s Deaton?”

“Went to get food and coffee,” said Isaac. “We need to figure out what happened to Derek. Something’s wrong. Maybe we should go to the loft.”

Jackson shook his head vehemently, which did not help his disorientation. “We can’t just leave Lydia alone here with three unconscious people and a pack of alpha werewolves after us.”

Isaac’s eyes darted to the tubs, and Jackson knew that Isaac agreed; in his panic about Derek he had probably forgotten about Allison and McCall. Based on how worried Isaac had been for the past God-knew-how-many hours, there was no way he would actually leave them now.

“Fine,” said Isaac. “We could at least call Derek or Peter, right?”

“I guess,” Jackson said reluctantly. He didn’t want to talk to Derek right now after he and Isaac had walked out on him, and he _never_ wanted to talk to Peter. “You do it, then.”

Isaac reached for the phone in his pocket, but before he could scroll through his numbers, he was interrupted by the sound of Jackson’s own phone buzzing in his pocket.

Jackson cursed, really hoping it wasn’t his parents or Danny or someone else looking for him. But no. It was… No, it couldn’t be.

“Hey, pup.”

Jackson’s chest tightened with emotion: palpable relief, confusion, and a surge of the strong feeling of connection to her that he associated with _pack_ but, if he were honest with himself, might have more to do with _family_. How had this happened? How could she be okay?

“Cora?” he asked tentatively, afraid this was some kind of trick.

“Obviously,” she said. She was trying her best to be snarky, but Jackson could hear the affection in her voice. She sounded so _normal_ , like she hadn’t even had a mild cold, let alone been half dead.

Isaac’s expression of relief and disbelief mirrored Jackson’s. He dropped to his knees next to Jackson so he could more easily listen to Cora’s voice on the other end of the line.

“What happened to Derek?” Jackson asked warily.

“He’s alive,” said Cora. If she had meant her answer to be reassuring, her tone undermined it.

“But?” said Isaac.

“It’s complicated,” said Cora. “I’ll explain soon. But he’s okay. We’re both okay.”

“We could come back--” Jackson started, but Cora cut him off.

“No,” she said firmly. “You can’t do anything here right now. I know you’re trying to help the others. They need you more than we do, okay?”

Both Jackson and Isaac were silent. Jackson suspected Isaac was thinking the same thing he was: that he knew Cora was right, but he still wanted to see her.

“ _Okay_?” she repeated, voice stern.

“Okay,” Jackson and Isaac said at the same time.

“I’ll see you soon,” said Cora. There was a pause before she quickly added, “I love you guys.” Then she hung up.

Jackson lowered his phone. Isaac looked as shocked and confused as Jackson felt.

“What’s going on?” Lydia asked. She hadn’t been able to hear what Cora had said on the other end of the line.

“Cora’s alive,” said Jackson. “She says she and Derek are okay, but she wouldn’t explain what happened.”

“This is good news, right?” Lydia smiled uncertainly. “She’s okay, and now the Darach can’t use her to get to Derek.”

“Yeah,” said Jackson. It _was_ good news. Cora was alive and healthy. It should’ve been the best news he could possibly have heard.

But the wrongness and disorientation Jackson had been feeling were starting to coalesce into a more distinct feeling that was focused in his chest. A hollowness. Something was missing that had been there not too long before, and he couldn’t pinpoint what it was.

Isaac was the one who articulated it. “It feels like Derek’s _gone_. Like he died or something.”

“Cora said he’s okay,” said Jackson. But privately he agreed with Isaac. That hollowness, that sense of incompleteness, was familiar. He had felt it back in London, when he hadn’t had a pack. ...When he hadn’t had an alpha.

The sound of splashing water and three people gasping for air preempted whatever Isaac might have been about to say. Jackson’s heart lept into his throat. He had gotten to his feet in half a second and was kneeling on the wet floor by the side of Stiles’ tub a second later. He helped Stiles sit up in the tub and waited while he coughed up some water he had swallowed, then hauled Stiles to his feet and let him use Jackson’s arm for support while he stepped out of the tub.

“God, that feels gross,” said Stiles, peeling his wet T-shirt away from his chest and looking it over with distaste. “Did I remember to grab a change of clothes from my house?”

Jackson felt an intense compulsion to hug Stiles or something, to somehow be close to him and pour out the surprisingly immense relief he felt that Stiles was okay. Especially with that unsettling feeling about Derek and just having talked to a very-much-alive Cora, Jackson’s emotions were threatening to overwhelm him.

He settled for pushing the wet hair off of Stiles’ forehead and smoothing it back before pulling his hand away.

“You look like shit,” Stiles said to Jackson with a smile.

And Jackson would’ve come up with a retort if he hadn’t happened to glance over Stiles’ shoulder at that exact moment.

“Hunh,” he said eloquently.

“What?” When Jackson didn’t respond, Stiles snapped his fingers in front of Jackson’s face. “Jackson?”

“I’m gonna assume you didn’t know about that,” said Jackson, and pointed over Stiles’ shoulder.

Well, this would definitely be interesting...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: Second half of Season 3A, Ep. 11. Still a fair amount of canon dialogue and stuff in this chapter, but we're almost to the end of that, I promise!
> 
> OH MY GOD YOU GUYS I'M BACK. I am so ashamed of how long it's been since I updated, but I promise I have a good reason: I'm back in school and it's really busy and intense. BUT my goal is to post much more frequently until the end, which is coming up in several chapters. With any luck, I'll be done by Christmastime. Crazy, right?!
> 
> I again offer you a piece of shameless self-promotion and say that I hope you'll check out the Jackson/Isaac fic that I'm co-writing with the very talented [Savannah_Clover](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Savannah_Clover). We just posted the twenty-seventh chapter, and we update weekly. The fic is called _The Strength of the Wolf_ and it can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3703403).
> 
> Many thanks to [Ismene_Jane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ismene_Jane) for being a wonderful beta, and thank you all for your views, kudos, comments, and especially your patience! I seriously appreciate your support and feedback.


	29. Monstrosity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: MONSTROSITY

STILES

Stiles spun around and followed Jackson’s gaze to where Scott and Allison were standing. With Isaac. Who had an arm around each of their waists and was hugging them tightly against his body. They seemed completely oblivious to everyone around them, especially judging by the fact that Allison was now _kissing_ Isaac, and Scott appeared to be totally fine with that. And then it was _Scott_ who was kissing Isaac, and Stiles’ brain was threatening to shut down. Maybe he was still unconscious and this was his brain trying to deal with severe oxygen deprivation. There was no other logical explanation.

“You should see the look on your face right now,” said Lydia, who had appeared at Stiles’ side while he’d been distracted by how his brain was on the verge of imploding.

It took conscious will for Stiles to get his gaping mouth to shut and to look away from the slightly disturbing impossibility that was occurring ten feet away from him.

“You knew about this?!”

Lydia scoffed. “Please. A good best friend notices when a girl is in love with two boys at the same time.”

“In lo-- But they-- I don’t--” So many words were trying to escape Stiles at the same time that none of them could make it out completely.

Jackson made a sound of recognition, like a bunch of things he had been thinking about for a while all suddenly made sense. Stiles rounded on him.

“Did you know, too?”

“No,” said Jackson, “but I thought maybe Allison was cheating on McCall, so I guess this is better. Weird as fuck, but better.”

“Look who’s talking,” said Lydia, eyeing Stiles and Jackson.

...Okay, fair point.

“You’re telling me you knew about Scott and Isaac, too,” Stiles said to Lydia, more than a little skeptical. And God, just _thinking_ the words ‘Scott and Isaac’ suddenly felt really weird and a little gross. Which made Stiles feel kind of shitty for being judgmental. But it wasn’t like Stiles had a problem with Scott being with a dude (hello, Pot meet Kettle), or even Scott being with two people (though that was definitely, as Jackson had put it, ‘weird as fuck’), it was just… Isaac? _Seriously_?

“What’s the matter, Stiles?” Lydia’s expression was obnoxiously smug. “Did you think you and Jackson were the only two boys crushing on each other?”

Jackson emitted a kind of annoyed huff, but didn’t say anything. Apparently he knew better than to rise to Lydia’s baiting. Or he was too exhausted to object. Or too stressed out. Stiles noticed then that Jackson’s scent was tainted by anxiety, like he’d been worrying for hours. Worrying about Stiles? That thought was strangely… touching. Stiles wasn’t about to make out with Jackson in front of everyone like the three-way lovefest that was _still_ going on, but he did want to acknowledge Jackson in some way.

When Stiles stepped closer to Jackson and ruffled his hair roughly, Jackson made a sound of protest at how some of the water that was soaking Stiles’ clothes got on him. Just for that, Stiles shook his own hair out like a wet dog, spraying Jackson and Lydia with drops of water.

“Dude, come on!” Jackson said irritably.

“Good job almost-but-not-totally killing me, man,” Stiles said to Jackson with a small smile.

Jackson didn’t have a chance to respond before the sound of the back door opening alerted everyone to the fact that Deaton was back. As if a spell had been broken, Scott, Allison, and Isaac quickly jumped apart. A moment later Deaton was back in the exam room with them, looking at Stiles, Scott, and Allison expectantly.

The three of them nearly talked over each other as they tried to explain what they had seen when they’d been unconscious. It sounded like Scott and Allison had probably had similar visions (or whatever they were) to Stiles’--forgotten memories that told them where they had each seen the Nemeton before.

It was only at that point that anyone thought to mention to them that they had been unconscious for _sixteen fucking hours_.

“We’ve been in the water for _sixteen hours_?” Scott’s incredulous tone echoed Stiles’ thoughts.

Deaton gave them one of his patented Ominous Faces, paused for dramatic effect, and said, “And the full moon rises in less than four.”

Towels, coffee, and snacks were passed around as they all listened to Scott try to convince everyone that it was somehow not the Worst Idea of All Time for him to go back to the alpha pack.

“No, dude,” Stiles said firmly, “you are _not_ going back with them.”

“I made a deal with Deucalion,” Scott insisted.

“Does anyone else think that sounds a lot like a deal with the devil?” Stiles looked around at the rest of the group for support. Most of them seemed to agree with him, but they weren’t being particularly vocal about it. Isaac and Allison appeared to be trying to find slightly more diplomatic ways of objecting than Stiles’.

Isaac frowned. “Why does it matter, anyway?”

“Because I still don’t think that we can beat Jennifer without their help,” said Scott. His eyes were sad, and he kept glancing back and forth between Allison and Isaac.

Allison turned to Deaton, pleading with him. “He trusts you more than anyone. Tell him he’s wrong.”

Stiles nodded his emphatic agreement with Allison, but Deaton, in true Deaton fashion, decided to go all Yoda on them: “I’m not so sure he is. Circumstances like this sometimes require that you align yourself with people you’d normally consider enemies.”

“So we’re gonna trust him, the guy that calls himself ‘Death, Destroyer of Worlds’?” said Isaac, and for the first time Stiles thought he could sense the concern for Scott underneath all that infuriating attitude. When had that attachment formed? How had Stiles not seen it before? “We’re gonna trust _that guy_?”

For once, Stiles was in total agreement with Isaac.

“I wouldn’t trust him, no,” said Deaton. “But you could use him to your advantage. Deucalion may be the enemy, but he could also be the bait.”

Stiles was about to ask for some (a hell of a lot of) clarification when there was a clattering sound from the waiting room. Deaton led the way out there to check on the source of the noise, but Stiles’ senses were already telling him who it was before they saw him.

Perfect. Just perfect.

* * *

JACKSON 

Isaac’s snarl cut through the temporary silence that the twin alpha’s appearance had caused. Jackson growled, too, eyes burning at the proximity of the wolf who was partially responsible for their packmates’ death. Jackson and Isaac both launched themselves toward Ethan. Unfortunately, the invisible barrier created by the mountain ash of the gate near the office’s front desk held them in just as effectively as it kept the alpha out. They were both sent flying back, Jackson nearly knocking Stiles over before Stiles regained his balance and kept them both upright. Isaac was not so lucky, and McCall had to help him back to his feet.

Ethan eyed the group warily, looking like he would rather be anywhere else in the world, which showed good instincts considering the fact that basically every person in the room had good reason to want him dead.

“I’m looking for Lydia,” he said.

Lydia emerged from the back of the group and gave him a superior look.

“What do you want?” she said coldly.

“I need your help,” said Ethan.

Jackson bristled at the request. Help _him_? One of the guys who had made Derek kill Boyd, who had contributed to Stiles being bitten and nearly dying? No fucking way!

Stiles crossed his arms over his chest and assessed Ethan, suspicious. “With what?”

“Stopping my brother and Kali…” said Ethan, frowning, “from killing Derek.”

Well. Jackson hadn’t seen _that_ coming.

There was a tense pause, then Isaac laughed. A harsh, humorless sound that expressed Jackson’s own visceral reaction to the dark absurdity of the proposal. Stop the other alphas from killing Derek? Their entire mission since they’d shown up was to destroy Derek’s pack--to kill all of his betas or make him do it, and to kill him, too, if he wouldn’t.

“Are you fucking serious?” Isaac’s smile was sour. “You expect us to even _try_ to trust you, after what you did? Why the hell would you want to save Derek?”

“Isaac...” McCall started, placing a hand on Isaac’s shoulder.

“Am I the only one who thinks this screams ‘trap’?” said Stiles.

“Why would I try to trick you?” said Ethan. “If I still agreed with the other alphas, we could all just come here and kill you right now.”

“Bring it,” Isaac growled.

“If everyone would stop posturing for a moment,” said Deaton calmly, “perhaps we might ask Ethan why he has had this sudden change of heart.”

“They’ve gone too far,” said Ethan. “I never wanted this. The whole reason we joined Deucalion in the first place was to get out of our old pack because they were vicious killers. Deucalion’s pack isn’t any better. Derek’s a good guy. He’d die for his betas. He doesn’t… None of you deserve this.”

Much to his annoyance, Jackson found that he believed Ethan. Even though it felt like too little too late.

“You couldn’t’ve developed a conscience _before_ you killed Boyd?” Isaac drawled.

“Or Kali tried to rip my throat out,” said Stiles.

“What’s your plan?” McCall interrupted before Stiles and Isaac could really get going again. “For saving Derek.”

“Aidan cares about Lydia,” said Ethan. “I think she could talk him out of it. If Aidan’s on our side, we’d stand a chance of beating Kali.”

It was Stiles’ turn to laugh bitterly. “So you want to take Lydia--small, mortal, no-wolf-powers-or-hunter-training _Lydia_ \--with you to see your homicidal alpha buddies so she can _talk_ one of them out of killing Derek based on a crush he might have on her? You seriously believe we’d just--”

“I’ll do it,” said Lydia, cutting Stiles off. “I’ll go with you.”

“Lydia, you can’t” said Allison. “It’s a suicide mission.”

“Aidan _does_ like me,” Lydia insisted. “I’m tired of not being able to do anything but find bodies. If I can help save someone for once, I’m going to try.”

“I’ll go with her,” Jackson heard himself say. Besides helping protect Lydia, there was one very important reason he wanted to go back to the loft, even if it was dangerous. “Cora’s with Derek.”

Jackson might’ve had a strained relationship with Derek (and who the hell knew what was going on with him after that feeling of disconnection Jackson and Isaac had gotten earlier), but there was no way he was going to let anything happen to Cora. Especially now that they had just gotten her back.

“Bring whoever you want,” said Ethan, “but we have to go now. Every minute we waste here gives Kali and my brother more time to get to Derek before we can.”

The group was quiet for a moment. Jackson had half-expected Isaac to offer to go with them as well, but Isaac seemed too busy worrying over McCall and Allison to make himself leave them. Jackson tried to hide his nervousness; he didn’t really like the idea of being the only one there to protect Lydia if Ethan turned on them or if she couldn’t convince Aidan to switch to their side. But he also couldn’t ask anyone else from the group to come. They had Stiles’, McCall’s, and Allison’s parents to think about, and they were running out of time, too.

“Okay,” said Stiles. “Jackson and I will go with Lydia to make sure she doesn’t get ambushed by alphas.”

Jackson shook his head. “Stiles, you don’t--”

“Yeah, I do,” Stiles said firmly. He turned to Isaac and Allison. “As soon as we know things are okay with Derek, I’ll meet up with you guys at the Nemeton, okay? Scott, you…” He frowned. “You do what you gotta do.”

All of it was decided before anyone else could object. Everyone but Deaton left: McCall went back to Deucalion, Isaac and Allison to the Nemeton, and Jackson, Stiles, and Lydia to the loft in Stiles’ Jeep with Ethan following on his motorcycle. There were no goodbyes, just a lot of variations on “See you soon.” The actual odds of that weren’t great, but admitting uncertainty right now wasn’t an option. For better or worse, whoever was left standing by the end of the night would be living in a much different Beacon Hills.

* * *

DEREK 

Derek regained consciousness on the floor of the loft, propped up against the window. Someone was cradling the back of his head, tipping a bottle of water to his lips. Derek drank from it greedily. How long had he been out? What had happened? Cora…

 _Cora_. It was Cora helping him with the water. Derek turned to her, weak and gasping but amazed and profoundly relieved.

“You’re okay.”

Cora beamed at him. She looked completely healed, healthier than he’d seen her since even before she’d come back to Beacon Hills. “I’m doing much better than you are right now. And all because of you.”

“Hopefully not all for nothing,” Peter said irritably. “The moon is rising, Derek. You drained your battery all the way to the red, and there is a fully-charged alpha on her way to rip you limb from limb.”

Derek waved Peter off and struggled to get to his feet. “I’ll be fine in a few hours.”

“I sincerely hope so,” said Peter, “because a few hours is all that you have.”

Peter did have a point, but there was nothing Derek could do about it now, so he didn’t want to hear about it. He was about to tell Peter so when the alarm he had rigged up for the front door went off. The three of them stood up straight, senses trained on the door. But instead of someone barging into the loft, there was a knock.

“Derek!” Stiles’ voice. “Turn off the friggin’ alarm, it’s just us!”

Cora turned off the alarm and Derek went to unlock the door. Four people poured into the loft: Stiles, Jackson, Lydia, and--

“What the _fuck_ is he doing here?” Cora demanded with a growl in her voice.

Derek, too, emitted an instinctive low growl, though Peter looked more amused than alarmed.

“He’s here to help,” said Stiles. “Supposedly.”

Jackson rushed over to Cora and practically threw himself into her arms, hugging her tightly. She whispered reassurances to him that she was okay, thanking him for helping to save her, telling him that she’d missed him and she was glad he was safe. It made something in Derek’s chest twinge, seeing his sister and their cousin like that. Did Jackson know they weren’t pack anymore, that Derek wasn’t an alpha?

“It’s true,” said the alpha twin, but he stopped talking at a fierce glare from Derek.

Lydia stepped in front of the alpha. “He says Kali and Aidan are coming to kill you, but he thinks I might be able to talk Aidan into joining our side so we stand a better chance against Kali.”

Derek raised an eyebrow at Lydia. “Talking. That’s your plan.”

“I’ve got a better plan,” said Peter. “Leaving.”

“You want me to run?” Derek asked him. Typical Peter: when in doubt, turn tail and flee, and fuck anyone who gets left behind.

“No. I want you to stay and get slaughtered by an alpha with a psychotic foot fetish,” Peter said sarcastically. “Of course I want you to run! Sprint, gallop, leap your way the hell out of this town!”

Derek turned to Cora. “What about you? You agree with him?”

Cora frowned, hesitating before she answered. “If you want to fight and die for something, that’s fine with me. But do it for something meaningful.”

 _Meaningful_. What were the things that meant something to Derek? His pack was the first thing that came to mind, but he didn’t really have that anymore, did he? Even if he were still an alpha, Boyd and Erica were dead, Isaac had Scott, and Jackson’s allegiance as a beta had always been shaky at best. Really, all Derek had left were his family and his own life.

“Okay,” Derek said finally. “If that’s what you want."

Cora gave him a solemn nod, then looked to Jackson. “Come with us?”

The scene was suddenly very familiar: Jackson glancing back and forth between the Hale pack and Stiles, torn. Derek knew now that Cora and Jackson meant a lot to each other. But Stiles also meant more to Jackson now than he had before. Still, even though Derek and Jackson might not have had the closest relationship, Jackson was a Hale. He was their cousin. He belonged with them.

“I…” Jackson swallowed.

“You should go,” said Stiles. “We’ll be okay.”

After another moment of hesitation, Jackson shook his head.

“I said I’d help them,” he said to Cora and Derek. “Besides, I can’t exactly just skip town without my parents trying to find me, which will just get you in trouble when they do.”

Cora nodded her understanding. “Keep in touch, okay? Let us know you’re safe.”

“I will,” said Jackson. Cora smiled sadly and pulled him into another hug.

“As touching as all of this is,” said Peter, “we’re wasting time. I suggest packing your shit and getting out of here as soon as possible. Kali’s not going to give you a few extra minutes for a tearful goodbye.”

“Fine,” said Derek. There wasn’t much else to say, really. Cora went to pack up her few possessions and clothes, and Derek did the same.

“Great,” Derek heard Stiles say. “Can we go now? Allison and Isaac could probably use the backup ay-sap.”

“We should stay at least until they leave,” said the alpha twin. “If Kali and Aidan arrive before Derek’s gone, we’ll still need Lydia to try to convince Aidan to join us.”

Derek half-listened to Stiles, Lydia, and the twin talking about their plan for that possibility while he went upstairs to grab some stuff from the bathroom. When he got back to the top of the stairs, he glanced down to find that Peter had cornered Jackson there and was speaking to him in low tones.

“--maybe not the best decision in terms of self-preservation, but I admire you for keeping your word,” said Peter. “It’s a shame your parents can’t know the truth. I think they’d be proud of you if they did.”

Jackson could not have looked more uncomfortable, and it was no wonder. Any sane person would be suspicious of Peter paying them a compliment or genuinely approving of something they did. And Peter had specifically mentioned Jackson’s parents. Did he know about, or at least suspect, the connection between himself and Jackson?

Derek made a point of stepping loudly on the stairs as he walked down, which made Peter back away from Jackson slightly as if he’d just been caught doing something he shouldn’t. Jackson practically fled back to Stiles, pulse noticeably elevated.

Maybe it was for the best that they were leaving. The more space between Peter and Jackson, the better.

* * *

STILES 

Derek, Cora, and Peter had been safely gone for all of two minutes before Kali and Aidan showed up. The rest of them had been on their way out the door when the alarm had gone off.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” Stiles muttered to himself. He made a mental note that next time someone had to flee town on a short timeline he’d tell them to leave their shit behind and buy new stuff when they were at least a hundred miles away.

“Ready to charm a guy into not murdering us?” Jackson asked Lydia dryly.

“Worked on you, didn’t it?” Lydia countered, which shut Jackson up pretty damned quick.

Kali saved them the trouble of having to turn off the alarm by kicking it off the wall. She surveyed the room, and at only finding Stiles, Jackson, Lydia, and Ethan there, growled in displeasure. She would be able to tell by listening that no one else was in the loft. Her target had gotten away.

“Where is he?” she demanded.

Stiles was about to make a smartass remark, but Lydia beat him to the punch.

“I think he said he was heading out to do some shopping, run a few errands. The usual…” She cleared her throat nervously. “...Werewolf afternoon.”

Kali narrowed her eyes at Lydia, clearly not amused. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”

“Someone in desperate need of a pedicure,” Lydia said haughtily, recovering her composure. “I’d be happy to give you a referral.”

Kali’s eyes turned murderous. Stiles’ instincts prodded him to move closer to Lydia, to get ready to defend her. But the wolf who stood up to Kali first wasn’t him.

Aidan growled at Kali, low and threatening. Hunh. Maybe Ethan had been on to something after all.

“Oh, really?” Kali cocked her head to the side. “Did someone take their little assignment too seriously?”

There was a tense moment during which Kali seemed to be assessing how to proceed now that she knew Aidan’s loyalty was in question. Then she launched herself at Lydia. Aidan intercepted her and Ethan joined in a few seconds later. Stiles ran over to Lydia and pulled her away from the fight. He considered joining in, but with two people already fighting Kali, Stiles could just as easily get injured by one of the twins in the middle of the fray. Even if they were technically on the same side now, the twins were a lot more motivated to kill Kali than to protect Stiles.

Jackson seemed to have had the same thought, because he went to Stiles’ side, carefully watching the alphas fight each other for any sign that Kali might break away and come for them. Stiles was relatively optimistic. It was two alphas against one, right? Plus the twins could turn into Voltron Wolf and beat the shit out of Kali. They probably wouldn’t even need help from Stiles or Jackson. All they had to do was keep Lydia safe and wait it out.

But Stiles hadn’t considered how smart Kali was. She kept the twins separate while she fought them, continuously shoving them away from each other so that they didn’t have a chance to merge. She even risked letting one of them wound her while she focused on the other one if it meant keeping them apart. She was smarter than the twins, older than them, and stronger than them.

Aidan went down first. Kali sent him flying into one of the loft’s concrete pillars. He bashed his head on the corner of it and fell to the ground, alive but unconscious. Lydia rushed to his side, which meant that Stiles and Jackson had to follow. Kali then turned on Ethan, whose chances against her were seriously weakened without his brother’s help, especially when he was distracted by the fact that Aidan was hurt. Ethan fended Kali off for a few blows, but an acrobatic kick from her ripped deeply into Ethan’s abdomen. He crumpled to the ground clutching his stomach.

Well, fuck.

With both twins out of commission, Kali turned to Stiles and Jackson. “Tell me where Derek is.”

“Or what?” said Stiles. “You’ll kill us? You tried that one on me already.”

Kali looked at Stiles like she had only just now recognized him. Her lips twisted into a smirk. “Well, isn’t this a nice surprise? You survived the Bite.”

“No thanks to you,” said Stiles.

“True, I did mean to kill you,” Kali mused. “But this is better, actually.”

“Yeah, kill me and you get more power.”

“Obviously,” said Kali. “You’re more use to me alive for now, though.”

Stiles had not been expecting that, and he definitely didn’t like the sound of it.

“Come here,” Kali said to Stiles. Her eyes glowed red when she said it, and her tone was commanding.

To Stiles’ horror, he felt an instinctual urge to obey her. Or at least, the wolf inside him did. He had taken a step forward before he had even thought to stop himself. When he realized what he was doing, he glared at the alpha who had bitten him against his will and planted his feet, refusing to come closer.

“Aww, sweetie,” Kali mocked him. “You think you can refuse your alpha? You’ve only been one of us for, what, a week? You’re not even close to strong enough for that yet.”

“You’re _not_ my alpha,” Stiles said defiantly, even as his inner wolf whined for her approval. _No_. Stiles was human. No one controlled him. “I don’t have an alpha.”

“Cute,” said Kali. But her command was even more firm this time: “Come. Here.”

Stiles took another involuntary step forward. It wasn’t like he was being hypnotized or directly controlled or anything, exactly, but there was this overwhelming sense within him that it would feel _right_ to obey Kali. She had made him. He was part of her pack. He was--

“No,” Stiles growled. He felt his eyes begin to burn, glowing gold. He cursed. He didn’t want to transform now. He didn’t want to transform _ever_. He wasn’t the wolf. It was only inside him. It didn’t control him. It _didn’t_. And neither did Kali.

Kali only laughed, still amused by his struggle. She began walking toward him, holding his gold eyes with her red ones as she drew close. This time, her voice was soothing, rather than commanding, when she spoke.

“Don’t fight me, little beta. Join me.” She pressed her warm hand to the side of Stiles’ face, and Stiles, though the human part of him very much wanted to, couldn’t pull away.

“Scott will join our pack soon,” she said softly. “Don’t you want to be with your best friend? If you killed an alpha you could even be equals with the rest of us. I know you want power. I can feel it. We can give you power.”

It was like a speech from a friggin’ Sith to a Jedi, and--God help him--a small, very irrational part of Stiles was actually tempted.

“Help me kill the traitors, and you can be an alpha. You can be part of our pack. You can be with Scott. I’ll even let your friends live.”

Her voice, her touch, were so perversely comforting to the wolf in Stiles. Despite his protestations that he was human and that he could keep the wolf at bay, Stiles’ resolve was wavering. Was this how Derek had made his betas feel? Was this why Derek’s lack of approval had made Jackson so miserable? It would be so easy for Stiles to let himself be convinced by Kali. The twins had done horrible things to Stiles and his friends. Why shouldn’t they die? Why should--

A savage growl ripped through the air, and Stiles was pushed roughly away from Kali. He fell to the ground, dazed. He lifted his head to find Jackson squaring off with Kali, drawn to his full height in an aggressive posture. His eyes were glowing bright blue, fierce and defiant.

Still, Kali wasn’t remotely threatened. “Oh, this is precious. One of Derek’s betas, right? Do you have a thing for mine? You could join, too, I guess. There are two alphas here to kill, after all.”

“Fuck you,” Jackson spat as Stiles struggled to his feet.

“If you don’t join us, I’m going to have to kill you,” said Kali. Matter-of-factly, like it was simple logic, nothing personal. “No loose ends with Derek’s pack.”

Jackson growled at her again. Then he went full-on wolf: eyes, ears, teeth, claws, fur--the whole nine. But in spite of his aggression, it was clear that he was scared. If the twins couldn’t take on Kali together, Jackson didn’t stand a chance on his own. Stiles wanted to help, but could he really be counted on in a fight against the alpha who had made him? Jackson was stalling, keeping Kali from controlling Stiles and buying time for the twins to recover. It was a brave plan. It was also a _terrible_ plan.

Its terribleness was confirmed when Kali lunged at Jackson, teeth and claws extended. He dodged to the side, but she caught him by the arm, dragging deep cuts into his bicep as she threw him to the ground. She was on top of him before Stiles could react, squeezing his throat with clawed fingers.

An involuntary “No!” escaped Stiles’ throat. He threw himself at Kali’s side, trying to shove her off Jackson, to break her hold in some way. His wolf’s instincts were screaming at him not to attack his alpha, but the human side of him was shouting the wolf down, insisting that the bitch who’d bitten him wasn’t his fucking alpha and that no way in hell was he going to let her kill Jackson. Jackson was _his_. She couldn’t take him.

“Little fucking help here?” Stiles called to the room.

There was a pained groan from Ethan’s direction, and Lydia’s pitiful “Sorry, Stiles” indicated that Aidan was still unconscious. Couple a’ fearsome alphas they were.

Stiles’ fingers scrabbled at Kali’s back and arms but he couldn’t keep a hold on her, let alone pull her off Jackson, even with his supernatural strength and agility. Adrenaline was coursing through his veins now, raising his pulse, making his gums and fingers itch to release his fangs and claws. His eyes were burning. Stiles knew that the wolf’s natural weapons would go a long way toward giving him at least a tiny chance against Kali, but he didn’t want to transform. He hated it. He didn’t trust himself when he was like that. He never wanted to transform again.

 _I’m human I’m human I’m human I’m_ \--

There was blood oozing from Jackson’s neck where Kali’s claws were digging into it. Stiles could hear him choking, gasping for breath and breathing in only blood as Kali’s grip tightened.

Stiles saw red. Something inside him snapped.

The transformation was almost instantaneous. The wolf howled its relief as Stiles set it free. He was strong and he was fierce and he was _angry_. It did not matter that the other wolf was his maker; he would defy any alpha who threatened what was his. He would not let her kill the blue-eyed beta.

Stiles’ wolf dug its claws into the alpha’s back, finally finding the purchase necessary to try to pull her away from the beta. Somewhere in the back of his head he knew that he needed to be careful, though; the alpha could kill her victim in the struggle. With that in mind, the wolf gathered a surge of energy, using his body weight to hold the alpha still while he pried her fingers from the beta’s neck. Stiles’ wolf twisted the alpha’s arms around behind her back so that she couldn’t get a hold of the beta again. Then he wedged his body between them, trapping her limbs as best he could while she struggled against his hold. The alpha was strong, but Stiles’ wolf had leverage, and after taking an elbow to his jaw he was finally able to throw her off the beta, flipping her onto her back on the ground.

Then he was on her like a rabid dog. She flashed her red eyes at him, commanding him to stop, but he defied her. She had no power over him anymore. Her claws dug into his arms, dragged across his chest and sides, ripping into his skin, into his flesh. The wounds didn’t matter, though. He would heal after he had beaten her. The alpha was a threat and he would destroy her at any cost.

“Stiles, wait!”

A voice from behind him. Not the injured beta. Another wolf. One who hadn’t been there a moment ago.

 _Derek_.

Derek’s voice echoed through the wolf’s head, calling the human, bringing Stiles back to himself. But it was too late: Stiles had his teeth in Kali’s throat and his claws in her heart.

She was dead.

* * *

JACKSON 

Jackson swallowed blood as he woke to the incredibly unpleasant sensation of the flesh of his neck and throat beginning to slowly knit back together. He became aware of other unpleasant sensations as he drifted back into consciousness: the cold, hard concrete beneath him, the overwhelming smell and taste of blood surrounding him. He knew he should open his eyes, but they felt so heavy. _Everything_ felt so heavy, and cold, and painful. Maybe if he just lay there for a while longer he would heal and it wouldn’t be so bad.

People were talking in low tones nearby. Familiar voices.

“I didn’t mean to, Derek. I couldn’t stop.”

“I know.”

“I couldn’t control it.”

“I know, Stiles. It’s okay.”

Jackson struggled to open his eyes. The lashes were stuck to his skin with dried blood. He lifted a heavy arm so he could rub at them. When he finally succeeded in opening them, he was blinking up into a face that didn’t belong to one of the voices.

“It’s okay,” Cora whispered to Jackson. There was a relieved smile on her lips. “You’re okay, Jackson.”

He realized then that his head was resting in her lap. They were in the loft, he remembered. They had been fighting Kali. She had attacked Jackson. But why was Cora there? She had left with Derek before the fight. Jackson struggled to sit up, despite Cora’s murmured protests that he should lie still and try not to irritate his injuries. Why was she being so quiet? What the hell was going on?

Jackson finally succeeded in sitting up, though he still leaned some of his weight against Cora’s side. His eyes found the source of the voices. Derek was kneeling next to Stiles, who was sitting cross-legged on the ground, gripping Stiles’ shoulder in a comforting gesture.

“She was gonna kill him.”

“But she didn’t,” Derek said gently. “You got her first.”

“I didn’t mean to kill her,” said Stiles. His voice was frantic, like he was pleading with someone to understand. “But I saw his blood and the fucking _wolf_ just… took over.”

“You did what you had to do,” said Derek.

“She was gonna kill him,” Stiles repeated. “I couldn’t let her.”

Derek sighed deeply. “Stiles, you didn’t do anything wrong. He’s alive because of you. “

Jackson tried to speak, but only ended up coughing painfully. There was fresh blood in his mouth. His injuries were taking their sweet fucking time healing.

Derek turned to look at Jackson, but Stiles didn’t seem to have noticed. His face was angled toward his feet, and he was picking at his shoelaces in the distracted, fidgety way he did when he was anxious. It was only then that Jackson realized the laces should’ve been white, not red. Then he noticed to his horror that Stiles was sitting in a large pool of thick blood. Kali’s, if the nearby body was any indication. Stiles’ arms were also caked in dried blood, fingernails to elbows.

“Stiles?” Jackson asked hoarsely. His still-healing vocal cords scratched.

Stiles lifted his head, eyes closed. His face and neck were red with blood as well, along with the front of his shirt. It seemed like more of him was bloody than clean.

Jackson raised both eyebrows in shock. “The fuck happened?”

No one said anything. But Stiles slowly opened his eyes and looked at Jackson.

They were glowing even redder than the blood.

* * *

DEREK 

Derek stood and stepped away from Stiles at the wild look in Jackson’s eyes: confusion and alarm, the need to make sure Stiles was okay. Sure enough, it was only a few more seconds before Jackson had fled Cora and was kneeling in front of Stiles. Blood soaked dark and rusty into Jackson’s jeans.

Though he felt a like maybe he was intruding on a private moment, Derek couldn’t look away. This was a window into something that everything Derek knew about Jackson and Stiles declared couldn’t exist. Sex between them had been hard enough to believe. Jackson submitting to Stiles had been even stranger, especially when Stiles had still been human. But this…. Stiles killing to save Jackson, Jackson scared because Stiles was hurt…. This was something else entirely.

Jackson was trying to get Stiles to look at him. “You okay?”

Stiles shrugged noncommittally. His eyes were shut tight again. He hadn’t been able to keep them ‘off’ since Derek and Cora had arrived. The red kept glowing back to life.

“Stupid question,” Jackson muttered.

There was a tense silence between them, but then Stiles lifted his hand. He pulled Jackson toward him by his torn-up shirt so he could bury his face in Jackson’s neck. Searching for his scent, Derek knew, though probably neither of them could smell anything over the sick metallic tang of all the blood.

“Forgot my anchor,” Stiles murmured, bloody face hidden against Jackson’s bloody neck.

“No shit,” said Jackson. He dropped his head to Stiles’ shoulder and hid his face, too. There was no embrace, no kiss, no declaration of love or relief over each other’s safety. Just closeness and scent-comfort.

They stayed like that in silence for a few long minutes before lifting their heads and looking at each other. When they locked eyes, Stiles’ turned red again. A second later, Jackson’s glowed blue.

The bond was solidified in an instant. Stiles had only been an alpha for all of ten minutes, but he already had a beta.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: First half of Season 3A, Ep. 12. More canon dialogue in there, but I swear we're basically done with that now.
> 
> OMG THE DRAMAZ WHAT. I mean, I'm back! Happy Holidays and an even Happier New Year to all! Sorry this is late; story of my life. Lots of projects going on, as usual. The good (or maybe bad?) news is that there are only two more chapters after this one. Eep! But hey guys guys guys there's going to be a three-part **bonus miniseries** for _DL_ that I wrote with [Savannah_Clover](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Savannah_Clover)! It's called _Divided Loyalties: Trinity_ and it's about what's been going on with Scott, Isaac, and Allison in the background of the main fic. You can find it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5609692). Each of the two other parts will be posted with or soon after the final two chapters of _DL_ , respectively.
> 
> Thank you all so much for the views, kudos, and comments! I appreciate every single one of them. You are all wonderful and have made this project such a joy to work on, even when it's been difficult. I'll try to post the last two chapters soon because I really want to get the fic done before Spring semester gets into full swing. Fingers crossed I can manage it!
> 
> In other news, the Jackson/Isaac fic that I've been co-writing with the very talented [Savannah_Clover](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Savannah_Clover) is officially done! The fic is called _The Strength of the Wolf_ and it can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3703403). There's also a three-part side series to be read along with the final few chapters (it's posted as a "series" with the main fic, so it should be easy to find).
> 
> Many thanks to [Ismene_Jane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ismene_Jane) for being a wonderful beta, as always :D


	30. Solidarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER THIRTY: SOLIDARITY

STILES

“Fuck,” said Stiles as he slowly came back to himself. When had he gotten to his feet? How long had he been kneeling on the floor like that? Everything smelled like iron and slightly rancid meat and Stiles’ skin and clothing were sticky with dried blood-- But he didn’t have time to deal with that right now.

“My dad… We need to find my dad. Call Allison or Isaac or, fuck, I don’t even know.”

“Stiles, you need to heal,” said Derek, in that slightly patronizing Derek-y way of his. Stiles was grateful for the fact that Derek had tried to talk him down when he had been half in shock a few minutes ago, but he didn’t need to be babied, especially not now.

“No, I don’t.” Stiles lifted his torn-up shirt for emphasis. The wounds he’d received during his fight with Kali were already closed and half healed and most of the pain was gone. Perks of being an alpha, apparently.

An _alpha_. Stiles was an alpha now. Remembering that fact made a powerful instinct surge through him, and he turned to Jackson, suddenly very worried about him in a way that was somehow separate from and yet intertwined with how the human part of himself felt about his beta.

“You okay?” Stiles moved to examine Jackson’s bloody throat, but Jackson waved him off.

“Fine,” Jackson rasped.

Still, Stiles insisted on having a closer look, and Jackson appeared to be too tired and hurt (judging by the black lines that jumped up Stiles’ arms when he gingerly touched Jackson’s neck) to argue. It was hard to see how bad it was under all the blood, but Stiles supposed that if Jackson could talk (sort of), it couldn’t be _too_ bad. Stiles could empathize with how it felt to have Kali try to destroy your neck.

“Stop--” Jackson broke off and coughed a few times, wincing in pain. He caught Stiles’ wrist in his hand, but his grip was weak. “Stop _poking_ me.”

“Stop trying to talk,” Stiles countered. He turned to Derek. “Can you guys take care of him while I’m gone?”

Jackson tried to shake his head, but winced again when he started the motion. At least he was following Stiles’ order not to talk.

“Of course,” said Cora, voice betraying her concern for her packmate. _Former_ packmate, Stiles corrected himself, but maybe those bonds weren’t so easily broken. It was clear from Cora’s posture that she had been waiting anxiously for the opportunity to help Jackson. Maybe she didn’t want to get between an alpha and his injured beta? Interesting. Stiles had a _lot_ to learn about this very unexpected (and unwelcome, in a lot of ways) new role, and no time to learn about it right now.

Cora stepped toward Jackson, but Jackson backed away.

“Going with you,” he insisted, fixing Stiles with a determined look.

“Dude, what did I literally _just_ say about talking?”

Jackson flinched, then looked irritated with himself for his own reaction. Stiles sighed deeply. Now, more than ever, he was going to have to be careful about his power over Jackson.

“It’s only till I get my dad back,” Stiles said more gently. “Okay? Please, just… don’t fight me on this. I have to go. I’ve already lost a lot of time.”

Jackson stared at Stiles for a long moment. Then, slowly and carefully, he nodded.

Stiles gave Jackson a small smile. “Thanks.” When he ruffled Jackson’s hair--parts of which were matted with blood--Jackson closed his eyes. Stiles could feel some of his beta’s anxiety ease. “I’ll be back soon.”

“He’ll be safe with us,” Cora promised.

“Stiles,” Lydia said from across the room. Suddenly Stiles felt like a huge douchebag for not having noticed she was still there. To be fair, though, he’d been a little distracted. “Be careful.” She paused, then her expression became more resolved. “I know you can do this. Bring them home.”

Stiles gave her a solemn nod. He could do this. He _would_ do this. Because not doing it? That was _not_ an option.

* * *

DEREK 

Jennifer arrived so soon after Stiles left that it was a miracle they hadn’t crossed paths. Derek could be completely sure that they hadn’t crossed paths, because if they had, Jennifer would’ve had Stiles’ blood all over her; there was no way Stiles would run into the monster who had kidnapped and was threatening to kill his father and not attack her, even if she was an incredibly powerful dark druid.

The twin alphas both growled at Jennifer, but didn’t get up. They were waiting to see what would happen--maybe hedging their bets, maybe buying themselves time to finish healing. Regardless of how one of the twins felt about Lydia, Derek was pretty sure the twins would save their own asses if they had a chance to get away from Jennifer.

When Jennifer saw Kali’s body lying on the ground, a strange shadow crossed over her features--Was it grief for her former alpha, even though Kali had tried to kill Jennifer?--before it was replaced by a cruel smirk.

“Which one of you managed to kill her?” she asked the group.

“Stiles,” Lydia said proudly. She seemed determined to show Jennifer that she wasn’t afraid of her, even though Jennifer had almost killed her. The long, thin bruise over her throat from the garrote was still visible.

Jennifer’s eyebrows raised. “Really? A week-old beta,” she said, impressed. “I wouldn’t have thought he had it in him. But that would mean…”

“He’s an alpha now,” Derek finished for her. He was more than a little tired of Jennifer’s games. He just wanted her to tell them what she wanted and get on with it. But he also didn’t want to provoke her into killing anyone else.

“That’s the trouble with werewolves, isn’t it?” Jennifer mused. “Let a beta kill an alpha and you end up with another alpha, who can make more betas. Not everyone can be as self-sacrificing as Derek, giving up their power to save a member of their pack.”

Derek was stricken. How had Jennifer known? Could she see it in him somehow? But, no. Peter had been right: this was what Jennifer had wanted all along--to make Derek weak so that he would need Jennifer’s help to defeat the alpha pack. Jennifer knew that Derek had given up his power because she could see that Cora was healthy again.

“I’m glad you’re all right, Cora,” said Jennifer, turning to her. “I’m sorry that things had to be this way. But you were never in any real danger. I knew Derek would do the right thing.”

“Bite me,” Cora growled.

Jennifer only smiled. “I suppose Stiles did me a favor. I didn’t have to waste my power fighting Kali. Stiles may be an alpha now, but he’s not a part of Deucalion’s pack. If he stays out of my way, we don’t need to be enemies.”

“You took his dad.” Jackson’s hoarse voice was low and cold. “He’s your fucking enemy.”

Jennifer turned her gaze on Jackson, as if she’d only just noticed that he was there. “Well, this is an interesting turn of events. Derek only stopped being your alpha a few hours ago, and you already have a new one?”

Jackson glared at her defiantly, eyes glowing beta blue: the same as Derek’s now.

“You’re right, Jackson,” Jennifer continued. “Stiles probably does think I’m his enemy. So the smart thing for me to do would be to keep you as insurance. His dad is a good incentive, but it couldn’t hurt to have a backup, considering what he did to Kali.”

“I’d like to see you try, bitch,” said Cora, edging in front of Jackson to shield him from Jennifer. Things were going to get out of hand _very_ quickly if Derek didn’t interfere.

“Cora, stop,” said Derek. “She’s not going to hurt Jackson.” He turned to Jennifer. This had gone on long enough. “What do you want?”

Before Jennifer could answer, there was a loud roar from behind Lydia. Apparently the twins had finished healing. And they had combined into their larger form. They (or he? It?) stalked toward Jennifer.

“Well, this is convenient,” said Jennifer, smiling again. “Two more of you for me to pick off. When you’re gone, Deucalion will be the only one of his pack left.”

“They’re not loyal to him anymore,” said Lydia.

“That doesn’t mean they’re not a threat to me,” said Jennifer. “Besides, an alpha pack is a violation of the natural order of things. I can’t let them live.”

“You don’t have to do this, Jennifer,” said Derek. The last thing they needed right now was more bloodshed, especially with time running out for Stiles’, Scott’s, and Allison’s parents and the lunar eclipse fast approaching.

“I’m sorry, Derek,” said Jennifer, and, in her way, she did seem sorry. But that didn’t make this okay. Nothing would make this okay.

Before Derek could interfere, the combined twins lunged at Jennifer. Derek had fought them before. He knew how strong they were individually, let alone in this form. But Jennifer had the power of almost a dozen human sacrifices fueling her.

It wasn’t even really a fight. In a split second, she had them in a headlock. She spun around, and there was a sickening crunch as their neck broke. The look of satisfied victory on Jennifer’s face made Derek’s stomach turn. Who was this person? Had she been like this since before Derek had known her? Had all that sweetness and affection she’d shown him been a lie?

“What’s the line Coach likes to say?” She smiled cruelly. “‘The bigger they are…’”

Lydia was devastated. Her breath came in quick gasps, heart racing. She slumped to the floor next to a pillar, which Jackson was now leaning his weight against to keep himself upright. Cora, showing an uncharacteristic tenderness, knelt next to Lydia and attempted to soothe her, running her hands over Lydia’s hair and back as if she were another wolf.

So much pain. So much death. And for what? Because the alphas had hurt Jennifer? Because their existence upset the fucking balance of nature, or whatever? It all sounded like bullshit excuses to Derek.

“Why?” he asked her. Because that was really the only word that was necessary to sum up all of his questions.

“Why did I do it?” Her expression turned softer as she took a few steps toward Derek. “For us. For anyone who’s ever been their victim.”

But the softness, the plea in her tone made anger rise in Derek. She was trying to manipulate him again.

“Stop talking to me like a politician,” he said. “Stop trying to convince me of your cause!”

Her face was hard again. She had given up trying the emotional tactic. “Fine, I’ll convince you of someone else’s. Scott. You can save his mother, Stiles’ father.”

Derek nearly laughed. She had said that as if it wasn’t her fault that Melissa and the sheriff were in danger in the first place. But arguing with her now would only waste time.

“How?” he asked instead.

“I need a guardian,” said Jennifer. “And that’s a role that can either be filled by the three parents I was forced to take, or by you.”

A guardian. Like Derek had ever earned the right to be called that.

“I can’t help you. I’m not even an alpha anymore.”

“All I need is for you to help me get Deucalion in the right place at the right time.”

“You just killed two alphas on your own,” said Derek. “What do you need me for?”

“You haven’t seen him at his strongest,” said Jennifer. “I have. And if he’s got Scott with him, I don’t stand a chance unless I have you.”

“Derek, don’t trust her,” Cora pleaded.

“I have the eclipse in my favor,” said Jennifer, looking almost scared now, “but the moon’s only going to be in the Earth’s umbral shadow for fifteen minutes. That’s the extent of my window. There’s no decision to struggle with. Help me kill him, and the others live. Just help me.”

Derek disagreed; there was still a decision to struggle with, even if there wasn’t any time. He didn’t want to fight Scott. He also didn’t want to help Jennifer. But he’d be happy to see Deucalion--who was the reason he’d lost two of his betas--dead. And if, by helping Jennifer kill Deucalion, he could save Scott’s, Stiles’, and Allison’s parents, then that was the best course of action. He’d just have to hope Scott wouldn’t get hurt badly in the process.

* * *

JACKSON 

The loft was eerily empty and quiet after Derek left with Miss Blake. Jackson thought he should probably have an opinion about his former alpha helping the monster who had abducted his current alpha’s father, but it was difficult to give much of a shit about it. Let Derek and Miss Blake duke it out with McCall and Deucalion. The important thing was that Stiles, Allison, and Isaac needed to rescue the kidnapped parents. Either way, there was nothing Jackson could do but wait.

Lydia’s cheeks were wet with tears. Apparently she had cared more about that twin alpha than Jackson had realized. He didn’t have the energy to do much more than lift one of his arms, but she got the message and stepped close to Jackson, leaning her slight weight against his body. If he was honest, Jackson was actually using her body to keep him upright. As she rested her cheek against his shoulder, Jackson wondered idly if she’d be upset by how his blood (which had mostly clotted or dried) was staining her dress.

“We have to get going,” said Cora. Her tone was determinedly pragmatic, like she needed to do something useful so she wouldn’t think about Derek. “We have to get help.”

“From who?” said Lydia.

Cora thought for a moment, then said, “Deaton. He can make sure Jackson’s okay and help us figure out what to do next.”

“I’m fine,” Jackson insisted, but his protests were undermined by another painful coughing fit. He wished his stupid healing abilities would work a little faster. Alpha wounds were a bitch.

Cora gave Jackson a sad sort of smile and pressed her palm to his cheek, stroking her thumb over the blood-flecked skin there. Jackson closed his eyes and leaned into his cousin’s hand. He was so tired and so anxious and everything hurt. All he wanted to do was find somewhere away from all this blood and death and sleep until things were somehow better.

Lydia and Cora got their shoulders under Jackson’s arms and helped him stumble to the door. But then there was a strange cracking sort of noise from behind them, and a thump against the hard floor. Slowly, they all turned around.

Lydia rushed over to the twins and knelt next to one of them. They weren’t dead. Not yet, anyway. Jackson could hear their strained breath and slow pulses. Somehow, being killed in their combined form hadn’t killed them as separate people. But they were still in pretty bad shape.

“I’m calling Deaton,” said Cora.

Less than an hour later the three of them and the twins were back at the animal clinic. Deaton had driven over to the loft, helped them all get into the car, and sped back so he could start treating the twins immediately. Unfortunately, the eclipse chose the worst possible moment to arrive: when three badly injured werewolves were trying to heal themselves.

Jackson had thankfully healed up enough by that point that he wasn’t going to bleed out or anything, so he stayed out of the way while Cora and Lydia helped Deaton with the twins. It wasn’t a particularly enjoyable fifteen minutes, but Jackson got through it by trying very hard not to think about what could be happening to all of the other werewolves he knew who were also currently powerless at that moment. Maybe one in particular.

When the twins were out of danger, Cora came over to sit beside Jackson, leaning her head against his shoulder. They were silent for a while until Jackson finally figured out how to phrase what he wanted to say.

“Peter didn’t come back with you,” he said. He was careful to keep his tone even. He didn’t want to give the impression that he cared that much about it.

“He didn’t come with us in the first place. We thought he was going back to you guys to…” Cora trailed off. She sighed deeply and rolled her eyes. “No, of course he didn’t. He wouldn’t risk his own skin like that.”

“Where do you think he is?”

“It’s hard to tell with him,” said Cora “Maybe he just went back to his apartment and he’ll show up tomorrow like nothing happened. Or he could disappear for years.”

“He said something earlier… It made me think he knows,” said Jackson. “About me.”

Cora’s brow furrowed in concern. “You’re worried he’s going to want some kind of father-son reconciliation?”

Jackson shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“If he does come back for you, it’ll be because he wants to use you. No one manipulates people better than Peter does. Remember that.”

“Yeah,” said Jackson. His voice came out sounding hollow, though. He didn’t want a ‘reconciliation’ with Peter. He didn’t want to have anything to do with Peter. Part of him wished that he’d never found out that Peter was his biological father; in some ways it would’ve been better not knowing the truth than finding that out. But Peter had given Jackson one good thing: Hale blood. Peter had given Jackson Cora and Derek. Jackson imagined how Derek would react if he found out that Jackson viewed him as a silver lining, and he couldn’t help but smile to himself.

“What’s that for?” Cora asked, pointing at Jackson’s mouth to indicate his smile.

“Nothing,” said Jackson, shaking his head. “No reason.”

“Well, we’ve definitely got no reason to smile,” said Cora, but she was smiling now, too.

Jackson laughed, and Cora pulled him in for a rough hug. Jackson got his arms around her waist and squeezed tightly. It felt good. Maybe the pack bond wasn’t there anymore, but she would always be family.

“You should do that more,” said Cora after Jackson let her go. “Smile, I mean. It looks good on you.”

“I dunno,” said Jackson. “Doesn’t seem like a very ‘Hale’ thing to do.”

“True, Hales haven’t had much to smile about for like the last decade,” Cora conceded. “But who knows? Maybe after tonight, we will.”

* * *

STILES 

Driving in the storm was more than a little challenging, even with werewolf reflexes. After he narrowly missed crashing his Jeep, Stiles parked, grabbed the aluminum bat from the backseat, and continued into the woods on foot. He couldn’t judge exactly how much time he had left before the eclipse, but he knew it wasn’t very long (and knowing his luck, it would happen at the worst possible time). Hence, baseball bat in case of unexpected violence.

Even before the eclipse, Stiles couldn’t catch a scent or hear much of anything besides all that wind. Still, there was some other kind of sense, not human or werewolf-related, that was pushing him in one direction. Stiles didn’t know where it had come from, but he decided not to fight it, and soon he was racing through the woods, bat in hand, toward an unknown destination that he _really_ hoped was the Nemeton, otherwise at least half a dozen other people were totally screwed.

Then the eclipse came. Stiles was caught so off guard by the abruptness of losing his powers that he stumbled to the ground when his werewolf-speed running switched off. When he hauled himself back up to his feet, his hands were stinging from where they’d scraped the ground and his knees were bruised from falling. And they weren’t healing right away.

Stiles had never been so happy to be injured. He reveled in his skinned palms and sore knees. In some ways it was like he’d gone partially blind and deaf, or like a thick blanket had been thrown over him: his night vision was awful and his hearing and sense of smell were even worse. He was fragile and weak and _human_.

How had it only been a week since he’d felt like this? And how fucking _unfair_ was it that he only had fifteen minutes to be human again and he had to spend it completely alone in the middle of a storm while his dad and his friends were in mortal danger?

His eyes were stinging, watering. Maybe it was just the wind whipping into his face. Or maybe he was about to have a complete fucking breakdown over the insane degree to which this _sucked_. The logical part of his brain understood that good things had come out of him becoming a werewolf, including being able to save Jackson from Kali. But the rest of him ached with an unbearable sense of _loss_ that he hadn’t allowed himself to feel since he’d been bitten.

Until this moment, he hadn’t really accepted the fact that there was no going back. If there was a cure for lycanthropy, the werewolves and hunters would know about it. Only a total lunar eclipse--an astronomical event that only occurred a few times per century--could make this happen, and only for fifteen minutes. This was it. This was all Stiles got. And all it had done was remind him of how different it felt to be human than it did to be a werewolf. All it had done was make everything feel infinitely _worse_ and he couldn’t--

No. No time for self-pity. His dad was still out there, and Melissa and Argent. Maybe Allison and Isaac had gotten to them already, but Stiles couldn’t take that chance.

Stiles wiped at his eyes and then closed them, searching for that feeling that had been pushing him in the direction of what he somehow knew was the Nemeton. When he found it, he picked up the bat, which felt heavy in his hand, and walked determinedly forward through the stormy dark, tripping on tree roots and scraping his skin against bark along the way and not even remotely giving a shit. Soon, he’d heal. Whether he wanted to or not.

When he finally found the stump of the Nemeton and the remains of the cellar door, the earth was falling in around the stump, threatening to collapse into the cellar. Stiles swore.

It turned out that bringing the bat had been a better idea than he’d anticipated. When Stiles finally crawled down into the root cellar he found that it was on the verge of falling down around him and the people he found down there. At the last minute, he managed to wedge the bat beneath the broken beam above them, bracing a critical point above Isaac. It took a moment for Stiles to register that his dad was right next to Isaac, but when he did, he flung his arms around him and hugged him tightly.

Had it really only been like two days since he’d last seen his dad? It had felt like an eternity. Between then and now, Stiles had spent sixteen hours half dead, killed a friggin’ alpha werewolf with his teeth and claws, and become an alpha himself. His dad didn’t even believe that werewolves existed, let alone know that Stiles was one, and now this? Where was Stiles even supposed to begin explaining all that? What was--

“Jesus, Stiles, are you okay?” his dad asked. “What the hell happened?”

The alarm in his dad’s tone was confusing to Stiles until he followed his dad’s gaze to Stiles’ clothing and skin, which were the rusty brown-red of recently dried blood.

“It’s not mine,” Stiles said quickly. Then he added in a lower tone, “Most of it, anyway.”

His dad looked more than a little skeptical, but was kept from responding by an ominous shifting in the cellar’s ceiling. He wasn’t sure how much longer they could hold out, though. Dirt was pouring into the cellar, and there was a very real chance that even if they weren’t crushed, they would essentially be buried alive. No wonder Isaac’s heart was beating so frantically; even those of them who didn’t have claustrophobia had good reason to worry.

But then, very abruptly, the storm stopped. The earth stopped shaking, the howl of the wind subsided, and everything went quiet.

“Is it over?” Allison asked tentatively.

No one had a chance to respond--or if they did, Stiles didn’t hear it--before Stiles was hugging his dad again. Even over all the dirt and blood, he could still catch his scent. That wonderful, familiar, comforting scent that said ‘home’ to Stiles more than anything else could. He had almost lost it. He had almost lost his dad. Stiles would _never_ let anything like this happen again.

As if on cue, Stiles’ phone buzzed. He picked it up, never more relieved to see that name on his screen.

“Scott?”

“Hey!” said Scott. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, we’re okay. We’re all okay,” said Stiles. “How about you? You okay?”

There was an ominous pause before Scott said, “Sort of.”

Not very reassuring, but whatever had happened, they could deal with that later. The important thing right now was that they were all alive.

“You think you can come get us?” Stiles asked Scott.

“Yeah, of course,” said Scott.

“Great, okay,” said Stiles. Then he looked around at the caved-in cellar. “Um. Bring a ladder.”

Everyone in the cellar laughed as Stiles hung up the phone. Everyone except Isaac, who was still kind of freaking out. He was curled in on himself tightly, trying not to show it, but his heart was racing. After a minute or so of relieved chatting among the group, Isaac finally let go of his pride and gave in.

“Yeah, I really don’t think I can wait for that ladder,” he said shakily. “I’ll, uh. I’ll meet you up there.”

“Okay,” said Allison, concern plain in her voice. Isaac gave her a small smile before hauling himself up and out through the nearest opening back up to the surface.

“You sure you’re not hurt?” Stiles’ dad was frowning at several cuts in Stiles’ T-shirt.

“Dad, I’m fine.” Stiles lifted his torn shirt like he’d done to prove the point to Derek. Some of his own dried blood was there, he knew, but no remaining cuts. His dad’s eyes widened.

“You…” He stared at Stiles’ torso, then up at his face. “You were telling the truth, weren’t you? About all of it. You were right.” He sighed deeply. “I didn’t believe.”

Melissa was gaping at Stiles, looking almost hurt that she hadn’t known about Stiles being a werewolf. “How long?”

“A week,” Stiles admitted. “Seems a lot longer.”

Argent looked almost as surprised as Melissa, but he didn’t say anything. Maybe he was becoming resigned to the fact that basically all of his daughter’s friends were supernatural creatures. Stiles wondered for a moment what he would think if he knew that his daughter was now dating not only one, but _two_ werewolves, but he let the thought go. That was their problem, not his. He wasn’t going to be the person to let Argent know about it.

Melissa came over to sit next to Stiles, insisting on checking him over for any unhealed wounds. She pursed her lips when she didn’t find any.

“That’s an awful lot of blood, Stiles,” she said.

“I’m okay,” Stiles insisted. “I really am. It’s over. We’re all okay now.”

“All right,” said Melissa, though she was shaking her head. Still, she pulled Stiles into a fierce hug and kissed him on his bloody forehead. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you boys. Are any of you _not_ werewolves at this point?”

Stiles laughed, in spite of the objective seriousness of the issue. “Hopefully we’re it.”

Hesitantly, Stiles turned back to his dad, who was staring at him like he’d never really seen Stiles before. Stiles cringed. He didn’t want his dad to see him differently.

“Dad, I…” Stiles swallowed. “I’ll explain everything. I promise.”

“I know you will,” said his dad. “But that’s not important right now. All I need to know right now is that you’re okay.”

The corners of Stiles’ eyes stung. He gave his dad a watery smile and nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He was saved from having to by Scott calling down to them from outside. He had brought a ladder, as promised.

When they were all back above ground and had shaken off as much dirt as they could, exchanging tired, relieved hugs--the one between Scott and his mom made Stiles’ eyes sting again, and she even hugged Isaac--it was time to finally figure out what the fuck was supposed to happen next.

“So… what now?” said Scott, voicing what everyone was thinking.

“Now,” said Melissa, “those of us who don’t have supernatural healing abilities are going to the hospital.”

Argent shook his head. “Melissa, I hardly think that’s--”

“Are you the medical professional here?” she said sternly. “We were just tied up in a root cellar without food or water for a significant period of time, then the roof almost caved in on us during a storm. We are going to the hospital.”

“I’m not leaving you, Dad,” said Stiles.

“I appreciate that, son, but you can’t show up at the hospital looking like this,” his dad said with a reassuring smile. “I’m fine. I’ll go get checked out and let the office know I’m all right. You go on home and get yourself cleaned up. We can talk about… all of this later.”

Later. There would be a later when Stiles would be able to explain himself to his dad, who was _alive_ and finally believed him.

* * *

JACKSON 

Everyone was okay now. Jackson had been repeating that to himself in his head since Allison had called Lydia to tell them that Stiles had gotten to the root cellar on time to keep it from collapsing on Allison, Isaac, and the three parents, and that Deucalion had killed Jennifer, and that Derek and McCall had banished Deucalion and gone to get everyone else from the root cellar. Deaton had determined that Jackson’s wounds were healing up all right (though slowly) and didn’t need bandaging as long as they stayed scabbed over, and even the twins (who apparently weren’t alphas anymore, and Jackson didn’t understand that but he _definitely_ didn’t have the wherewithal to figure it out at the moment) were out of danger. It was all over and everyone was okay. Everyone was _okay_. _Everyone_ was okay.

Still, Jackson had to force down the instinctive panic that welled up in him when he saw Stiles, who was still covered in dried blood, now with an extra layer of dirt on top of it. Jackson ran up to him without thinking, but stopped short before he could do something stupid like _hug_ Stiles.

“Hey,” said Stiles, giving Jackson a small, weary smile. He sounded almost… shy. It was completely at odds with his appearance. “How’re you feeling?”

Jackson had asked Stiles that same question, only a week ago, when Stiles had been bitten by Kali. So much had changed since then. Most of it for the worse, but maybe some of it for the better. Jackson wasn’t sure where ‘Stiles is my alpha now’ fit into all that. Stiles hadn’t wanted to be a werewolf, so why the hell would he want to be an alpha? Why would he want a beta? This wasn’t the same as Stiles playing ‘human alpha’ with Jackson when they fucked. This was real. This was a bond that wouldn’t go dormant when they had showered and gotten dressed again, like it used to.

...Or had it really? Had Jackson just been pretending that the connection had only existed during sex because admitting anything else would’ve been too much to deal with? God, this whole thing was so _complicated_ and Jackson didn’t have the time or energy to deal with it right now. He needed to grapple with his life one thing at a time or it would threaten to overwhelm him. One thing at a time. One thing:

“Okay,” said Jackson after realizing that he hadn’t answered. “How’s your dad?”

“Fine,” said Stiles, voice filled with relief. “Melissa made him and Argent go to the hospital with her to get checked out, and he said I couldn’t go because, y’know, this whole situation.”

Stiles gestured vaguely to his own clothing and skin, where more of him was brown-red than clean.

“Yeah, that might raise a few eyebrows,” said Jackson, suppressing a smile. He, too, was feeling a surprisingly strong sense of relief. Not for the sheriff, but for Stiles. Jackson hadn’t wanted to find out what would’ve happened to Stiles if his dad hadn’t been okay.

“So my only option was the puppy hospital, where no one questions you if you’re covered in blood,” said Stiles. “Plus, I said I’d come back, right?”

Stiles’ warm smile made Jackson shift self-consciously. He didn’t think he’d ever know how to react when Stiles was sincere.

“I don’t think I need any doctoring, though,” said Stiles. “So I can take you home if you want.”

No, Jackson did not want that. He didn’t want to be alone right now. There had been a time when Jackson had enjoyed being alone. Not since he’d become a werewolf, though. Now almost any extended period of time without another wolf near him made him anxious and restless. And now there was one particular wolf whose presence a part of him was already starting to crave more strongly than ever.

“Might go back to the loft,” Jackson glanced toward where Cora and Derek were helping Deaton with the twins. As far as Jackson could tell, Allison, Isaac, and McCall were off on their own somewhere. Not exactly surprising.

“Or you could come to my place,” said Stiles. Simply, casually. Like it wasn’t a big deal and he had no agenda. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe he didn’t.

“Yeah,” said Jackson after hesitating for a moment. “Yeah, okay.”

Neither of them spoke during the ride to Stiles’ house in the Jeep. They went in through the front door--a rare and strangely normal experience for Jackson--and upstairs to Stiles’ bedroom. Stiles stood there awkwardly for a moment, looking around the room like he knew there was something he was supposed to be doing, but couldn’t remember what it was. Jackson could relate; he hadn’t really had a moment where he didn’t have to worry about something in a long time.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” Stiles said finally.

“Cool,” said Jackson. It was a lame response, but it was the first one that came to mind. “I’ll just--”

“Join me?”

Jackson had been about to say ‘wait here,’ but yeah, that sounded much better. He needed a shower, too, but he had figured he’d do it after Stiles or something. They didn’t really shower together unless they’d just had sex.

He nodded his agreement, and Stiles led the way to the bathroom. Almost mechanically, they helped each other strip out of their clothing, which would probably have to be burned to avoid suspicion. Jackson hissed in pain when Stiles pulled Jackson’s shirt over his head; gashes in his chest and arm were still healing, and one of the ones on his chest was stuck to the fabric of his shirt thanks to dried blood. It opened up again, bleeding slowly. His neck seemed to be doing okay, but the way Jackson had to move it to get the shirt off wasn’t exactly comfortable. In retrospect, he should’ve just cut the damned thing off.

Fucking alpha wounds. It had been hours since his fight with Kali, but Jackson still ached all over from cuts and bruises inflicted by her. Stiles, by contrast, basically had no visible injuries left. He had completely healed in the time between when he had shown Derek his chest back at the loft and now.

“Sorry,” said Stiles. He examined Jackson’s injuries, careful this time not to poke at them. He frowned when black lines crawled up his veins. Jackson sighed in relief as the pain eased, but it really hadn’t been so bad. He didn’t need Stiles to worry about him.

“We’ll get you cleaned up,” said Stiles. “I’ve got a good first-aid kit here if we need it. Perks of being a cop’s son and former Boy Scout. Always prepared. Well, mostly.”

Jackson nodded and struggled with the rest of his clothes. Between the two of them they managed to get undressed and into the shower without further incident.

The water ran reddish brown for a few minutes as the worst of the blood and dirt was rinsed off. Stiles helped Jackson carefully wash the wound near his ribs, as well as the remnants of the nasty bite to his neck and the deep gashes in his arm. Then they helped each other clean the rest of their skin and hair. Stiles was very focused on his own hands, washing them several times, even after there was no sign of blood or other grime, even under his fingernails. He also kept rinsing his mouth out and spitting, like he could still taste blood.

Kali’s blood.

No good would come of letting Stiles fixate on his guilt and shock about killing her. After Stiles had washed his hands for the fifth time, Jackson grabbed his wrist and tugged him out of the shower. He couldn’t remember the last time he was clean and dry and not under imminent threat.

“You smell like me,” Stiles mused tiredly. They were together in Stiles’ bed now, exhaustion finally setting in. Stiles had lent Jackson a soft T-shirt and sweatpants to sleep in. It was more comfortable than Jackson would admit.

“Shock,” said Jackson. He had bathed using Stiles’ soap and shampoo and was wearing his clothes and lying in his bed, after all. Stiles had determined that only Jackson’s side needed a bandage, and it was already healing up again, to the point where the pain was only really noticeable when Jackson moved. “That a bad thing?”

Stiles shook his head. “Alpha senses say it’s good.”

 _Alpha senses_. Jackson knew what Stiles meant: that new bond between Jackson’s beta wolf and Stiles’ alpha wolf was exerting a kind of calming influence over Jackson now. There was a ‘rightness’ to it that Jackson didn’t have the will to fight. As a rule, he didn’t like when his wolf instincts controlled his emotions, but his pride, his sense of control, didn’t seem important right now. He was with his alpha, and that was where he was supposed to be. He wondered if Stiles felt the same way. The thought that he might not was a very unpleasant one.

“Does it feel different?” Jackson asked after a pause.

“Being an alpha?”

Jackson nodded, though Stiles wouldn’t really be able to see it with them lying next to each other.

Stiles was quiet for a moment. “A little, I guess. Maybe it’ll be more obvious later.”

“You’ll be stronger,” said Jackson.

“Yeah,” said Stiles. His tone was indifferent, and his hands were fidgeting like they had been in the shower, wiping off non-existent blood. Guilt sunk heavy in Jackson’s stomach. Stiles regretted this. Apart from not wanting to be a werewolf, let alone an alpha, Stiles hadn’t wanted to kill anyone. He’d only done it to save Jackson’s life.

“Thanks for… doing that for me,” Jackson said lamely. “I’m sorry you had to.”

“If I didn’t kill her, someone else would’ve.” Stiles shrugged. “Figured I might as well do it before she got you.”

Stiles was trying so hard to make it seem like it wasn’t a big deal, like he hadn’t done it for Jackson, and like he didn’t really care that he’d killed someone. But Jackson knew Stiles well enough by now to see through it. Stiles was being too calm, too detached. Jackson hated himself for being the reason Stiles now had that black mark on his conscience. It was a feeling Jackson was all too familiar with.

“Look…” said Jackson. “If anyone gets how fucked up it feels to kill people, it’s me. So just… be fucked up. Not like I’m going to judge.”

“That is… surprisingly reassuring, actually.” Stiles shifted onto his side, facing Jackson. He cocked his head to the side, considering Jackson like he was trying to make a decision about something. Then his fingers slipped into Jackson’s hair, which was fluffy after the shower. Stiles’ voice was much different when he spoke again: slow and suggestive. “Wanna be fucked up together?” He tightened his fingers in Jackson’s hair, gripping it pleasantly. “And-slash-or maybe just fucked?”

Jackson’s mouth went dry. He only hesitated a moment before meeting Stiles’ eyes and nodding (as best he could with Stiles’ fingers in his hair, anyway).

“You know the rules,” said Stiles, smirking mischievously. “Gotta say it.”

“Yeah,” Jackson said hoarsely. He swallowed to recover his voice. “Yes. Fuck yes.”

“Good,” said Stiles. Jackson’s favorite word spoken by Jackson’s favorite voice. Stiles rolled to the side so that he could straddle Jackson, pinning him to the bed (as if Jackson would fight him!) and grinning at him in playful victory. It made Jackson’s breath catch.

Stiles’ eyes glowed red, and Jackson’s burned blue so fast it nearly made him dizzy. All his muscles went slack. Instant, reflexive submission. It should’ve scared Jackson, that Stiles had this level of control over him now, but it didn’t. Jackson had never felt so immediately and thoroughly _wanted_ on so many levels. More than that, he felt _free_. No more being torn between the alpha who had given him the Bite and the ‘human alpha’ who had become the gold-eyed beta wolf. No more confusion between his human submission and his wolf’s submission. No more need for validation from an alpha who couldn’t give it to him.

“Do that again,” Stiles commanded, and again Jackson’s eyes pulsed bright blue. Stiles groaned. “Didn’t think that could get any hotter. Guess Alpha Stiles is a fan, too.”

The searing red of Stiles’ eyes was hypnotic, exciting, soothing all at once. So different from how Derek’s eyes had made Jackson feel. It was like Stiles could see into the deepest parts of Jackson, and that he accepted and even _liked_ what he saw there. Even the darkness and pain and insecurity.

“Mine,” Stiles growled.

The word--spoken by the alpha in Stiles to the beta in Jackson--cut deep into Jackson, igniting a primal kind of desire that surprised Jackson with its intensity. Stiles was barely touching Jackson and he was already lost, surrendering to Stiles, submitting completely, not only helpless to resist but having no impulse at all to do so. Why would he try to resist something he wanted so badly?

“Say it,” Stiles insisted, eyes glowing again.

“Yours,” said Jackson. Quiet, breathless.

And he meant it. He knew that Stiles would feel bad about this later. He’d worry that he had manipulated Jackson, abused his power as an alpha in order to control Jackson. But Jackson didn’t feel controlled. He felt... powerful. Like Stiles was powerful, but in a different way. Stiles couldn’t force Jackson to submit, not really. Jackson had to give his submission to Stiles. There was power in that. Maybe he could make Stiles understand that, so he wouldn’t feel guilty.

The sex was fantastic. Jackson was still injured, but every now and then Stiles would press a palm over one of Jackson’s slowly-healing wounds and draw some of the pain out. It wasn’t like some ‘sexual healing’ bullshit; healing would only happen in time. But Stiles numbed the pain temporarily and replaced it with pleasure, to the point where Jackson was so caught up in Stiles that he could forget that he’d almost died only a few hours ago.

In the afterglow, Jackson was more aware than usual of Stiles’ presence: his body pressed up against Jackson’s back, one arm around Jackson’s waist, his thin fingers stroking through Jackson’s sweat-damp hair. But for once, it didn’t make Jackson uncomfortable. He didn’t feel like closing himself off again quite yet. He didn’t feel like running. Was this how it would be from now on? Would Jackson finally allow himself to admit that he needed to feel special, and that Stiles made him feel that way, and that it was okay for that to be true even when they weren’t fucking?

What if he admitted it, and then Stiles stopped making him feel that way? What if someday Stiles didn’t think Jackson was special anymore? Stiles was a real alpha now, after all. He could have other betas. He’d probably want--

“You’re worried,” Stiles murmured near Jackson’s ear.

It wasn’t until then that Jackson noticed that his own pulse was elevated. He was probably exuding the scent of anxiety, too.

Jackson didn’t say anything. Denying it wouldn’t do any good.

“Tell me why.”

It wasn’t exactly a command, but Jackson still felt compelled to respond.

“It’ll just be weird,” said Jackson, trying to keep his tone casual, “when you have a real pack.”

Stiles surprised Jackson by laughing: a short huff that tickled Jackson’s ear. “You think I want more betas?”

Jackson shrugged. He didn’t trust himself to speak. He didn’t know what he’d say if he tried, anyway.

“Fuck that,” said Stiles. “You’re a pain in the ass already.”

Stiles nuzzled his face into Jackson’s hair behind his ear, and Jackson found himself leaning back into it. The relief he felt at Stiles’ declaration was stronger than Jackson would care to admit.

“My alphaness only extends to you,” said Stiles. “We’ll figure out what the fuck that’ll actually mean later. For now, just… stop worrying for once.”

Jackson nodded. They lay together in silence for what felt like a long while, though Jackson was never very good at judging time in the period directly after sex. He was so tired--How long had he been awake by this point? He wasn’t even sure what day it was--but he couldn’t drift off, even with Stiles curled around him protectively.

“Don’t think I can sleep,” Stiles said quietly. “So fucking tired, but…”

“Doesn’t feel like it’s over,” Jackson finished for him. He was feeling that way, too. That was why he couldn’t sleep. After being on edge for months, it was hard to just turn it off like a switch, to magically feel safe for very long.

“Yeah,” said Stiles.

“I can stay till your dad gets home,” Jackson offered, “if you want.”

Stiles shifted behind Jackson, and for a moment Jackson thought he was getting up. But he just leaned over Jackson so he could see his face. Stiles gave Jackson a small, genuine smile. “I want.”

Then he kissed Jackson, a kind of slow, tired, relieved kiss that made the remaining tension in Jackson’s muscles ease as Stiles’ lips lingered on his. At any other time, Jackson would probably have found it too sweet, but this wasn’t any other time. After the day they’d had, exceptions could be made.

There was a peaceful pause after the kiss before Stiles added, “We should probably shower again before that happens, though. I’ve already got enough to explain to him without making it obvious that I was having super hot werewolf sex while he was in the hospital.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: Second half of Season 3A, Ep. 12. A bit more canon dialogue in there, but we are OFFICIALLY DONE WITH CANON now :D :D :D
> 
> Sorry for the late post! School got insane. But I can pretty much promise that there won't be much of a delay between this chapter and the final one (Eep!) because I'm done with canon content and a good chunk of the final chapter is written already. It was always the canon stuff tripping me up because it requires me to take extensive notes and spend a lot of time shifting the timeline around in order to make it fit with _DL_. Thank you for your patience! And thank you all so much for the views, kudos, and comments! I appreciate every single one of them. You are all wonderful and have made this project such a joy to work on, even when it's been difficult.
> 
> In case you didn't see last time, I have begun posting a three-part **bonus miniseries** for _DL_ that I wrote with [Savannah_Clover](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Savannah_Clover)! It's called _Divided Loyalties: Trinity_ and it's about what's been going on with Scott, Isaac, and Allison in the background of the main fic. You can find it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5609692). Part II is up now, and the final part will be posted with the last chapter of _DL_.
> 
> Related to that, the Jackson/Isaac fic that I've been co-writing with [Savannah_Clover](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Savannah_Clover) is officially done! The fic is called _The Strength of the Wolf_ and it can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3703403). There's also a three-part side series to be read along with the final few chapters (it's posted as a "series" with the main fic, so it should be easy to find).
> 
> Many thanks to [Ismene_Jane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ismene_Jane) for being an incredible beta, as always :D


	31. Loyalty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Notes for the Chapter:**

> *s (asterisks) indicate foreign language phrases that are translated in the endnotes.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: LOYALTY

STILES

Stiles’ dad spent most of Sunday sleeping. He had gotten home so late it was actually early, just when Jackson had started to nod off in Stiles’ arms. Jackson had hastily left through the window, and as eager as Stiles was to explain everything to his dad as soon as possible, he let him go to bed without much more than a very long, protective hug. He also might or might not have sat outside his dad’s bedroom door holding the aluminum bat until sunrise.

Like Jackson had said, it still didn’t feel like it was over.

“Stiles.”

Stiles registered his dad’s voice a split second after his back hit the ground. He had apparently fallen asleep sitting against the door, and his dad opening it had consequently caused Stiles to fall into the room. Stiles looked up at his dad, smiling sheepishly.

“Mornin’, Dad.”

“Afternoon,” his dad corrected him. “Almost evening, actually.”

“Yeahhh,” said Stiles. “Long night.”

“No kidding,” said his dad, with a weary smile. “Think we could justify pancakes for dinner? Technically we missed breakfast.”

“...You are the best dad on the entire planet,” said Stiles. His stomach gave a loud rumble. “Scratch that, best dad in the entire _universe_.”

His dad laughed and offered Stiles a hand. Stiles took it and let his dad help him to his feet, even though he didn’t need it. “You mix the batter. I’ll start the coffee.”

They had a cheerful breakfast/dinner together, chatting as though nothing mysterious or violent or downright horrifying had happened, not only last night but over the past several weeks. But after about twenty minutes, their conversation fell into an awkward silence.

“Okay,” said Stiles. “We should probably just get this over with.”

“Look, Stiles,” said his dad. “We don’t have to talk about this right now if you don’t want to. You’ve been through a lot lately--a lot more than I thought. I don’t… I don’t want to rush you.”

But Stiles could _feel_ his dad’s anxiousness for an explanation. He hated how awkward things were between them right now just as much as Stiles did.

“No, I want to. It’s not gonna get any less weird if we wait. Come on.”

Stiles got up from the table, and his dad gave him a quizzical look.

“Remember the chessboard?” Stiles said when his dad didn’t follow his lead. “I think that’s still probably the easiest way to explain.”

And explain, Stiles did. He went through everything he had tried to tell his dad with the chessboard before. His dad seemed kind of overwhelmed and a maybe a little freaked out, but he held it together. Honestly, he was taking it better than Stiles had feared. It was only when Stiles explained what had happened to him personally that his dad began to look visibly emotional about it.

“Stiles, I…” His expression had pain and regret in it, which made Stiles’ chest tighten. The last thing he wanted was for his dad to feel guilty about this.

“Dad, it’s--”

His dad held a hand up and shook his head. “I should’ve believed you. You were right, son. Your mom would’ve believed you.”

Stiles couldn’t argue with that. But it made him think about his mom, and how she might’ve reacted to all of this. What would she have thought about Stiles becoming a werewolf? Would she have accepted it and told him she loved him in spite of it right away, or would she have been afraid at first, like Scott’s mom? Stiles couldn’t decide whether he was sad that his mom wasn’t there to help him get through this, or relieved that she had never seen him turn into a monster. His eyes began to water, and his dad must’ve noticed because his expression softened.

“Come here,” he said, pulling Stiles into a rough hug. Tears escaped Stiles’ eyes when he closed them, and his fingers gripped his dad’s shirt, clinging to him like he might fall if he let go. The weight of everything that had happened to him and his friends and literally like everyone he even remotely cared about was palpably heavy, threatening to drag him down.

His dad ran his hand over Stiles’ back while he cried. At first it was soft and relatively quiet, but soon it got harder, until Stiles was a sobbing mess, crying so hard he was gasping for breath between sobs, shaking in his dad’s arms like he hadn’t done since his mother’s death--even worse than when he’d broken down after he’d been bitten by Kali and basically attacked Jackson. Werewolf or not, it felt like all of the strength within Stiles had evaporated, and he was the inconsolable ten-year-old boy whose father had had to hide his own grief for the sake of his son. Stiles’ dad had sacrificed so much for him, always putting Stiles first. He was still doing it now, even when faced with the fact that his son was basically a Universal movie monster from the 1940s.

It took several long minutes for Stiles’ sobbing to subside. He had to break away from his dad to wipe his eyes and cheeks and blow his nose. His eyes drifted back toward the table where the chessboard lay. He found himself idly wondering where a piece with his own name on it would fit now, and wandered back to the table. He picked up the pale wooden rook from the chessboard. The yellow label fell to the table as Stiles fidgeted with the little castle, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the smooth wood as he avoided his father’s eyes.

“Stiles,” his dad said. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” said Stiles. “I just, um. I don’t want to keep anything else a secret from you.”

His dad heaved a weary sigh. “You’re telling me there’s even _more_ I don’t know?”

Stiles frowned. “It’s not like another supernatural creature or anything. It’s about… me. I guess.”

“You mean besides the fact that you’re an _alpha werewolf_ who’s secretly been fighting monsters with a group of your teenage friends for the past year?”

Stiles cringed. “...Yes?”

“All right, let’s hear it,” said his dad.

Stiles hesitated, considering how he wanted to reveal this information. “So you know how I said that alpha werewolves have beta werewolves?”

Stiles’ dad nodded, though he still seemed little overwhelmed by the thought. “Like the runaway kids--Isaac and the others--were Derek Hale’s betas.”

“Exactly,” said Stiles. “And I, uh... I have one, too.”

“You do?” Stiles’ dad’s eyebrows raised. “Who?”

Stiles took a deep breath and squeezed the rook in his hand before answering. “Jackson.”

“Jackson,” his dad repeated dumbly.

Oh, God. This was a horrible idea. Stiles never should’ve said anything. This was waaay too complicated and awkward.

“Why would _Jackson Whittemore_ be your beta?” Stiles’ dad asked incredulously. “You two hate each other.”

“We did,” Stiles agreed. He shifted self-consciously and fidgeted with the rook, staring down at his hands instead of looking at his dad. “But, um. We’ve kind of been, uh. Hanging out. Sometimes. Lately.”

There was a long, painful pause while his dad processed the subtext of what Stiles was saying.

“...Oh,” he said finally.

“I would’ve told you, but he’s not-- we’re not really--” Stiles sighed deeply, hoping his dad wouldn’t notice that his face was growing warm. “It’s complicated.”

“Sounds like it,” said his dad. There was humor in his voice, and when Stiles looked up at him, he was smiling.

“He doesn’t want anyone to know,” Stiles said quickly. “And before you go all ‘Is my son not good enough for you?’ on him, I kind of don’t want anyone else to know either. Things are finally starting to maybe not suck as much around here, and I don’t… I don’t wanna mess with that.”

“All right,” his dad agreed after a moment. “But no more sneaking around. I’m going to assume, since you’re _you_ , that he’s been in this house without me knowing about it.”

Stiles winced guiltily and said nothing. His face flushed as he determinedly tried not to think about all of the times that Jackson had been in the house without his dad knowing about it. And what they’d been doing while he was there.

“The next time he comes here,” his dad continued, “it’ll be to have dinner with us.”

Stiles’ eyes widened in horror. “What?”

“Don’t try to fight me on this, Stiles.”

“But--”

“I don’t care if it’s complicated,” his dad said firmly. “I won’t say anything about it outside of this house, for as long as you want it to stay that way, but if the kid who took out a restraining order against my son is going to be _hanging out_ with him in my home, I’m going to have at least one meal with him.”

Stiles nodded slowly, painfully aware that this was a fight he would not win. He’d just have to see if Jackson had any interest in coming over anymore if these were the new terms of their… arrangement.

“And no closed doors while he’s here,” his dad added. “You may be werewolves, but you’re still teenage boys, and I’m still your father. I have to do _some_ kind of parenting.”

“Okay, fine, deal,” Stiles said quickly, but secretly he was already considering the logistics of sneaking out in the middle of the night to go to Jackson’s house instead.

A wide, involuntary yawn escaped Stiles, at which point his dad insisted that Stiles at least try to take a nap after staying up most of the night “unnecessarily playing watchdog outside my room.” Stiles protested on principle, but it didn’t really take much convincing to get him to lie down. His sheets still smelled like his beta. That scent had never been more soothing than it was now, and Stiles fell asleep in minutes.

He was awoken a few hours later by a cryptic ‘Hey can we talk’ text from Scott, and considering how many things they had to talk about and the nature of the subjects, Stiles suggested they meet up to do it in person. As reluctant as Stiles was to leave his dad alone, he also didn’t want to risk him overhearing this particular conversation. So after he had made sure his dad was settled into his favorite chair in front of the TV with the remote, a blanket, snacks, a newspaper, a finger of whiskey, and absolutely _no work_ , Stiles headed over to Scott’s house.

Now he just had to figure out how to politely ask when the fuck his best friend and his best friend’s girlfriend had started a secret bohemian polyamorous affair with a smug, smirking, scarf-wearing son-of-a-bitch.

It turned out he didn’t have to. The moment Scott opened the front door (his mom was at work) he was already launching into it:

“It’s weird,” said Scott. “I know it’s weird, so you don’t have to tell me. I didn’t-- _we_ didn’t plan it. It--”

“Scott,” said Stiles, taken aback by Scott’s intensity.

“--just _happened_. I don’t know how to explain--”

“Scott.”

“--it, and I know it’s complicated and--”

“Scott.”

“--probably not a good idea, but--”

“ _Scott_ ,” Stiles said firmly, which finally made Scott stop babbling.

“Yeah?” Scott asked warily.

“I’m not judging,” said Stiles. “Yeah, it’s weird, but so is like everything else we do, right? You were cool about Jackson and I definitely appreciate that. It’s just… _Isaac_? Come on, dude, he’s--”

“I know what he is. I know the stuff he did when he was Derek’s beta. But I know a lot of other stuff about him, too.” Scott shrugged. “And I like him. Well, more than that--”

“Okay, okay, I get it.” Stiles made a dramatic shudder. He did _not_ need to hear any personal details of whatever was going on between Scott and Isaac.

“He’s... important to me,” said Scott, seeming almost shy. “ _They_ ’re important to me. I’m not asking you to like him. I just want… I just need to know you and I are cool. This is going to be hard enough already.”

Stiles felt his own expression soften. He took a deep breath, sighed it out, and said, “Of course we’re cool, Scotty. We’re brothers, right? Even if you’re getting all... _intimate_ \--” Stiles made an exaggerated grossed-out face that Scott laughed at. “--with an oversized douchebag who pretty much lives to piss me off.”

“Same to you,” said Scott, grinning. “Minus the ‘oversized’ part.”

“...Fair enough,” said Stiles. “This whole ‘see the good in everyone’ thing is seriously annoying. Allison’s got a lot more sense. How did that guy manage to worm his way into her good graces anyway? I thought they kinda didn’t like each other. Y’know, based on all the stabbing.”

“Uhhh…” Scott rubbed at the back of his neck self-consciously in a way that was so thoroughly _Isaac_ it was disturbing. “He’s really hot?”

Not as disturbing as _that_. “Okay, no more of that. I very much do _not_ want to think about Isaac like that.”

Scott laughed again, and it was only at that point that either one of them realized that the front door was open. Stiles closed it and Scott led Stiles up to his room--their default hangout place at Scott’s house. When Stiles got there and took a breath, his nose wrinkled

“Oh my God, your room _reeks_ of him.”

“Well, he lives in my house, so...”

“In your _bed_?” Stiles said pointedly, because the scent grew stronger as Stiles walked further into the room. He hadn’t been in Scott’s room since he’d become a werewolf, and the scent in there was a potent mix of Scott and Isaac with notes of the flowery scent Stiles recognized as Allison’s underneath it.

“Sometimes,” said Scott. It was clear that he was trying to play it cool, but a second later his face broke into one of those sickeningly adorable puppydog grins. Scott was _way_ too goddamned happy.

“Fine,” said Stiles, sighing deeply. “I don’t get it. I don’t like it. But… it’s not about me. As long as you’re happy, that’s what matters.”

“I am,” said Scott, still smiling. “I really am.”

“But if he’s a dick to me--”

“You do what you gotta do,” said Scott. He clapped Stiles on the shoulder. “And thanks.”

Stiles nodded and gave Scott a small smile. Then he suddenly remembered that there was another Very Important Thing they should probably talk about.

“Oh, uh, by the way,” said Stiles, glancing away from Scott. “Something… happened. While you were off doing your whole always-save-everyone-ever thing last night.”

Scott’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“This.” Stiles took a deep, steadying breath and closed his eyes. He reluctantly let his anchor slip, allowing himself to accept the fact that he wasn’t _entirely_ human. When he opened his eyes again, they were burning.

“Holy crap!” Scott gaped at him. “You’re an _alpha_? Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“You started talking about Isaac like the second I showed up.”

“Fine,” said Scott. “When? How?”

Stiles gave Scott as short an account of the fight with Kali as he could, not wanting to dwell on it. What was done was done, and at least it was (mostly) in the open now.

“Shit,” said Scott when Stiles had finished. “You okay?”

“I will be,” Stiles said dismissively. “Oh, one last thing.”

Scott gave him a curious look.

“Jackson’s my beta,” said Stiles. “Like, for real this time.”

“I know,” said Scott.

“You know? How could you possibly know that? You just found out I’m an alpha like thirty seconds ago!”

Scott shrugged, smiling slightly. “How could he not be?”

* * *

JACKSON

Everyone had a few days to recuperate, and they were trying to settle back into their routines--going to class, doing homework, spending time with their families--as best they could, even though most of the important parts of their lives had been changed forever. But by the next weekend, Derek, who had apparently made himself the unofficial Beacon Hills werewolf advisor (because Deaton wasn’t enough already), had decided that they all needed to debrief about what had happened and figure out what the next steps were for the Beacon Hills wolves and their allies--supernatural and otherwise.

So they all met up in the preserve near the remains of the Hale house, and Derek laid out the situation of their new pack dynamics now that one alpha had become a beta (Derek) and one beta had become an alpha (Stiles) and various other betas’ loyalties had shifted around lately. Jackson had pretty much zero interest in their little ‘pack meeting,’ mostly because he knew he had no say in whatever was decided. Even if Jackson did care about this crap (which he didn’t), it was the alphas’ job to make decisions, not his. Packs weren’t democracies, as Derek had made painfully clear when Jackson had been his beta. Essentially, this whole thing was a waste of Jackson’s time, and he had only come because _not_ coming probably would’ve caused a bunch of drama. And because Stiles had asked him to.

Still, that didn’t mean Jackson had to enjoy it. He couldn’t quite get away with just staying in his car, but no one could stop him from sitting on the house’s front steps and fiddling with his phone instead of listening intently like most of the others (except Isaac, maybe) were.

“Scott was bitten by Peter,” Jackson heard Derek say, his tone all business, “and I’m not an alpha anymore, so Scott’s technically the Hale alpha. Any Hale betas are in his pack now.”

“Except Jackson,” said Stiles.

Jackson looked up on reflex when he heard Stiles say his name. When pretty much everyone looked his way, though, he dropped his eyes back to his phone. The time had passed when Jackson had wanted to be the center of attention.

“Except Jackson,” Derek agreed. “He left by choice.”

Jackson shifted uncomfortably, still feeling several sets of eyes on him. It was weird having people talk about his pack status so casually, especially since he was still getting used to it himself. Now that the initial alpha-beta bonding instinct had faded a little, the even-more-complicated-than-before nature of his relationship (or whatever it was) with Stiles was becoming more apparent.

“So, what, Jackson and I are the Stilinski pack or something?” said Stiles. Jackson couldn’t really read Stiles’ tone--whether he was happy about that situation or not--and it made him irrationally nervous. God, he fucking _hated_ being a werewolf sometimes.

“Technically you need three betas to have a pack,” said Derek, “but basically, yeah.”

The wolf inside Jackson bristled at the thought of Stiles having other betas. Stiles had told him that he didn’t want that, but what if he changed his mind? What if--

“What if I don’t want three betas?” said Stiles.

As slowly and stealthily as he could, Jackson raised his head so he could see Stiles and Derek. Derek opened his mouth, then closed it. The expression on his face made it look like the idea of an alpha who didn’t want to build a pack was a completely foreign concept to him. Jackson thought that should hardly come as a surprise considering that McCall’s ‘pack’ only had one werewolf beta, but Derek still seemed confused. Stiles continued before Derek could speak.

“Look, I… I’m happy to have Jackson.” He glanced at Jackson briefly, and that look plus the words made the wolf in Jackson swell with pride, which in turn made Jackson’s cheeks flush, because he hated how easily Stiles could affect his moods now and he _seriously_ hated that other people could see how his beta wolf reacted to its alpha. It still felt like a very private thing to Jackson. Stiles finished his thought: “But I don’t want to be a leader.”

Derek snorted. “You can’t just give up being an alpha. That’s not how this works.”

“Since when do we play by werewolf rules?” Stiles countered. “Just because I’m an alpha doesn’t mean I have to lead. There was a whole pack of alphas here like a week ago, remember? So I’m pretty sure alphas can choose to follow other alphas. Well, _this_ alpha chooses to follow the True Alpha.” He nodded toward McCall for emphasis. “I not gonna speak for Jackson, but that’s where I’m at.”

Everyone turned to look at Jackson again. Jackson, feeling too awkward and self-conscious to profess his loyalty in words, simply fixed his gaze on Stiles’ face, let his eyes glow blue, and then bowed his head for a few seconds as a sign of submission. Stiles, in turn, ducked his head to McCall. It couldn’t be real submission, because Stiles was still an alpha, and a strong-willed one at that. But McCall was his best friend, and Stiles had always kind of been part of his pack. Maybe things wouldn’t be so different after all.

As long as McCall didn’t get to tell Jackson what to do.

“So,” said McCall. “What now?”

“I dunno about you guys,” said Isaac, “but I’m fucking starving.”

There was a ripple of laughter and sounds of enthusiastic agreement from the group. Even Jackson found himself smiling slightly in spite of himself. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until Isaac had mentioned it. Apparently werewolf metabolism burned through a hell of a lot of calories during the healing process.

“What do you guys want?” McCall asked the group.

“True Alpha’s choice,” said Stiles. “Your first of many very important decisions.”

McCall laughed. “Uh, okay. Mexican?”

Stiles sighed deeply, shaking his head. “Oh, Scotty. If we’re gonna make this two-alpha thing work, you’re gonna have to come up with some better ideas. I guess I always was the brains of this operation.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, then broke into huge grins. Stiles slung his arm around McCall’s shoulder and bumped their heads together, laughing.

“Mexican it is!”

* * *

DEREK

It took Derek a while to remember how to be a beta again. Once he had accepted Scott’s authority, though, he felt an immense sense of _relief_ , like finally the burden he had placed on himself when he’d tried to build his own pack had been lifted. Derek was never supposed to have been an alpha. It should’ve been Laura, then one of Laura’s pups, not Derek. Derek hadn’t been raised to be an alpha, and that fact had been made painfully obvious in the end. His desperation and overconfidence and pride had led to the brutal deaths of two innocent teenagers. That was something Derek would have to live with for the rest of his life.

At least he wouldn’t have to do it alone, though. At least he had a pack.

It was a strange pack, no doubt, but it was shaping up to be a strong one: two alphas and four beta werewolves plus a growing group of human and supernatural allies (most notably a young hunter and a banshee). There was no mistaking that Scott was the leader, the rallying point, the sympathetic ear. Stiles was the support, the advisor, the strategist. Scott was benevolent and had a strong moral compass. Stiles was clever and analytical, more pragmatic than Scott. Derek had no doubt that, despite how young they were and the fact that they hadn’t been born wolves, their partnership would be a solid foundation for the new Hale pack. Derek was more than happy to take the backseat, advising Scott when it came to werewolf lore when necessary but mostly just enjoying not having an immense weight of responsibility on his shoulders anymore.

The freedom from responsibility also allowed Derek to focus on helping the other people he cared about. Cora was doing better now, and improving every day. Derek was starting to catch more and more glimpses of the smiling, carefree little sister he had thought he’d lost nine years ago, with fewer periods where the shadows of grief and trauma would suddenly cross over her features. She seemed to be having nightmares less frequently, too. Cora was happiest when Jackson was at the loft, where the two of them would watch TV or movies on Jackson’s laptop, or nap together on the couch, or (on the rare occasions when Jackson was feeling more open) chat about Jackson’s life.

Derek’s relationship with Jackson still felt a little tenuous. Between not knowing about him for sixteen years, and then accidentally turning him into a murderous lizard and hunting him, and then treating him like crap for another six months after he became a werewolf, Derek had a lot to make up for with Jackson. He didn’t know if Jackson had told anyone else that he was a Hale. Nobody had mentioned it, and Derek wasn’t going to be the first one to do so. That was something Jackson had to decide for himself.

Still, Derek couldn’t help but hope that Jackson would want to be involved in Derek’s and Cora’s lives, not just as packmates, but as family. Jackson would be an adult relatively soon. He wouldn’t live with his parents for much longer. He could choose to live wherever he wanted, see whoever he wanted whenever he wanted. He’d probably go off to college, but there would be holiday breaks and the summertime. Maybe if Derek rebuilt their family’s house… Well, there was time to think about that. Derek would fix things with Jackson first before he considered fixing anything else.

Peter hadn’t been seen or heard from since the night of the eclipse. No calls, no texts, apartment cleared out. Derek was fine with that. Good fucking riddance. Unfortunately, knowing Peter, he’d be back someday, most likely when it was most advantageous to him and most inconvenient to everyone else. Derek’s one consolation was that if and when Peter did come back to Beacon Hills, he’d have a formidable Hale pack to contend with.

Most of the teenagers were paired off (or grouped, in the case of Scott, Allison, and Isaac), to the point where sometimes pack meetings were held in what smelled like a cloud of pheromones, with people exchanging suggestive or affectionate looks that had both Derek’s and Cora’s eyes rolling. Secretly, though, Derek was glad. After all they had been through, the kids deserved some happiness. But Derek didn’t want that kind of relationship for himself, at least not for now.

He’d killed his first love, the second had lied to him and killed his family, and the third had used him and tried to kill his friends and their families. Derek didn’t want to fall in love again anytime soon. Not like that. He didn’t need it. He just needed _pack_ ; he needed to belong and be appreciated and wanted and loved in a way that was deeper than romance.

He _had_ all of that now. For the first time in nearly ten years, Derek finally had what he needed. And he would never let anyone take it from him again.

* * *

STILES

“This movie is terrible.”

Jackson and Stiles were sitting side-by-side on the Stilinskis’ living room sofa. Stiles’ dad had left them with money for pizza and a stern reminder about ‘no funny business’ before he’d gone to work. It had only occurred to Stiles halfway through demolishing the pizza that sitting at home alone together watching a movie was eerily normal and dangerously close to being classifiable as a _couple’s night in_ \--the closest you could get to a _date_ when you didn’t want people to know you were going out (or staying in?).

“Are you fucking kidding me?” said Stiles. “It’s a classic!”

“The Fifth Element is _not_ a ‘classic.’ You only _think_ it is because you saw it when you were a kid. You got brainwashed. And I am never watching it again.”

“You should be thanking your lucky stars I don’t like The Notebook.” Stiles smirked when Jackson glared at him.

“You think that’s funny, but she seriously made me watch it six times.”

“I would’ve watched The Notebook with Lydia six- _hundred_ times if she’d asked me to,” Stiles said with an exaggeratedly dreamy sigh.

It should’ve been weird talking about Lydia like this. It should’ve been _super_ weird. But somehow it wasn’t. Lydia was someone they had both once loved, and still did in some ways. She had supported both of them, separately and together. Stiles was of the opinion that, considering what she’d been put through because of him and Jackson, Lydia was a saint for even still speaking to either of them, let alone being their friend.

Jackson rolled his eyes. “Thank God you two weren’t actually a thing. The world couldn’t handle you being that happy.”

Stiles laughed, but found that he couldn’t think of a comeback. He gave Jackson a tentatively sincere smile. “But I _am_ that happy.”

All of the fake-annoyed, better-than-all-of-this attitude vanished from Jackson’s face. He stared at Stiles, wide-eyed. He took a breath and parted his lips like he planned on saying something, but then closed his mouth. Jackson’s teeth worried at his bottom lip. His eyes darted away from Stiles. Coming from Jackson, that was actually a much more positive response to his ill-advisedly heartfelt comment than Stiles would’ve expected.

Encouraged by the fact that Jackson hadn’t violently rejected his sincerity, Stiles scooted closer to Jackson on the couch. He gave Jackson a moment to move away, but he didn’t. So Stiles put his arm around Jackson’s shoulders. His hand found Jackson’s hair and he ran his fingers through it as he tried to pretend he was watching the movie again so Jackson wouldn’t freak out and land them back at Square One. They were already dangerously close to having a date, and now they were even more dangerously close to _cuddling_.

“Is this okay?” Stiles asked quietly after a few minutes, because Jackson’s breathing and pulse had become suspiciously even, like he was deliberately trying to stay calm.

Jackson’s pulse spiked. “Is what okay?”

“Me being like this.” Stiles smoothed Jackson’s hair down for emphasis. _Petting_ was something Stiles normally only did to Jackson when the beta-- _his_ beta--was submissive. Usually after sex. It actually felt kind of strange doing it when Jackson’s hair wasn’t all post-sex mussed-up and sweaty. Now it was smooth and soft, almost fluffy. Come to think of it, Jackson had been putting gel in it less and less since Stiles had first told him not to. “I don’t want you to feel weir--”

“I’m fine,” Jackson said quickly.

Stiles frowned. “Because I can--”

“It’s only weird if you _make_ it weird, Stiles,” said Jackson, sounding not-so-fake-annoyed now.

“Okay,” said Stiles. “I just…” He hesitated. “I want to do this stuff with you. If it’s okay.”

Jackson made an exasperated sound. Which, again, was comparatively a much more positive response than it could’ve been.

“For the last time, Stiles, it’s _okay_.” Jackson was sort of talking at the TV rather than looking at Stiles, but Stiles could still see Jackson’s expression soften. “It’s... good.”

Stiles felt the corner of his mouth turn up slightly. “Okay, well… Good.”

And if he were smart, he would’ve left it at that. But Stiles had never learned how to quit when he was ahead. So after another minute or so of amiable movie-watching, Stiles decided to push his luck. After all, hair-petting was an affectionate human thing to do, but it was also a pretty wolfy thing to do. Stiles wanted to know for sure that there was a difference.

Slowly, Stiles withdrew his arm from Jackson’s shoulders. Jackson didn’t react. Stiles couldn’t tell if Jackson was being all stoic and enigmatic on purpose just to fuck with Stiles or not, but Stiles employed an Approach With Caution strategy just in case. Like a twelve-year-old who wasn’t sure if his crush liked him, Stiles rested his arm on the seat of the couch between him and Jackson. Jackson’s hand was already there. The motion caused Stiles’ knuckles to graze against the back of Jackson’s hand.

How was it possible that something so silly and juvenile could feel like such a big deal all of a sudden? Stiles had done filthy and depraved things to the gorgeous guy who was sitting next to him. He was _intimately_ familiar with every inch of that absurdly attractive body. And here Stiles was, with fucking _butterflies_ in his stomach.

Someone’s pulse was speeding up. Was it Stiles’ or Jackson’s? Both, maybe? It definitely felt like it was at least Stiles’. Maybe he should--

“You’re thinking too much.” Jackson’s voice was barely louder than a whisper. He was still looking straight ahead at the TV. Stiles could almost have convinced himself he’d been imagining things until Jackson added, “Stop.”

Using Stiles’ own words against him. Clever. Stiles searched his mind for some kind of retort, but it seemed like some of the stomach butterflies had made a quick migration up to his brain and messed up all his thoughts with their shiny little metaphorical wings.

Stiles had just about decided to pretend he hadn’t heard Jackson say anything, when warm skin touched his hand. The movement was definitely not coming from Stiles, because Stiles was incapable of moving his arm right now. In fact, he wasn’t entirely sure that he had ever stayed this still while conscious before.

His hand was turned for him, and a palm--Jackson’s palm--pressed against Stiles’. The butterflies were having a friggin’ field day. Strong fingers--Jackson’s fingers--laced with Stiles’. Stiles was struck by how easily that happened, by how nicely they all fit together like that, with Jackson’s thumb covering Stiles’ on top. Stiles didn’t dare to glance down at the couch for visual confirmation, but he had a pretty good mental image.

Stiles let out a shaky sigh of relief, like the hand-holding thing had been as complicated as docking a space shuttle or something, and it had taken thousands of calculations and minuscule, painstakingly precise movements to get it just right.

Maybe it had.

“Do we really have to finish this fucking movie?” Jackson complained, back to fake-annoyed at a normal volume, like nothing had changed. “I wasn’t just giving you shit when I said I hated it.”

“Alpha picks the movie, dude,” Stiles said with a smirk. “But maybe if you’re a reeeally good beta, I’ll let you pick next time.”

Jackson snorted. “I’m earning privileges now? Do I get Beta Points or some shit?”

“Yep. I’ve got a spreadsheet. I’d show you, but it’s R-E-O stuff. Top secret.”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“Red Eyes Only!” Stiles grinned.

Jackson’s noise of profound irritation made Stiles laugh. When they’d lapsed into quiet again (apart from Jackson’s occasional comments about _cheesiness_ and _implausibility_ ), Stiles nuzzled his face into Jackson’s hair and breathed in his scent. It was so strangely, wonderfully familiar now, as was the way Jackson pressed his own face close to Stiles’ neck, breathing deeply, too.

Stiles didn’t need to listen to hear Jackson’s pulse. He could feel it--calm, like Stiles’ was now--through his fingers, where their hands were still connected.

Someday when they weren’t kids anymore, and everything wasn’t so fucked up... Someday when Jackson was okay with telling his parents and people outside the pack, and Stiles didn’t have to ask his dad to keep pretending that his son wasn’t seeing anyone... Someday when Jackson wasn’t so obviously terrified of disappointing Stiles, and Stiles wasn’t paranoid that he was abusing his power over Jackson... Someday maybe they could just be like this all the time: open and comfortable and _normal_ (as much as supernatural creatures could be, anyway). Someday.

For now, Stiles would tell Jackson that he was _good_ and Jackson would obey, and they would both know that it meant more than werewolf instinct. There was a four-letter word that Jackson hadn’t been able to say out loud since he was a kid, and Stiles would never make Jackson feel pressured to say it by saying it first. Even after Stiles was sure that he was feeling that word himself. Even after he had started saying it in his head sometimes. For now, it was enough.

For now, Stiles would put his arm around Jackson’s shoulders at a pack meeting and Jackson would try his best to be comfortable with it around the others, and Stiles would understand why it was so hard for him and appreciate that Jackson was letting him do it anyway. Little acknowledgements of the alpha-beta connection and human affection, which Stiles couldn’t help but make. Little signs of belonging.

For now, they’d be stupid, reckless, violent, ridiculous teenage werewolves together. They’d party and work and study and howl and fuck and fight for their pack and their families every goddamned day if they had to.

Emphasis on the fucking.

Because. Y’know.

Teenagers.

* * *

* * *

* * *

EPILOGUE: SIX YEARS LATER

 _Entering Beacon County_ , the road sign said.

The drive had felt longer than it had actually taken. He had spent it reviewing everything he had been told about Beacon Hills and what had happened there over the past fifteen years or so. Strictly speaking, the town wasn’t under his clan’s purview, but since the hunters assigned to it had apparently gone soft, someone needed to take responsibility for it. Someone needed to keep an eye on the Hales.

The information about the Hales that his clan had on file was cobbled together from accounts dating many decades back, collected from members of his clan and from others in California, Nevada, and Arizona. The relatively recent information was sketchy; some of it had been gathered firsthand when the Hales had come to Mexico several years ago, but the bulk of it had been passed to his clan through rumor. And rumors, while often exaggerated, almost always had at least a grain of truth in them.

He went over the names and basic identifying information of the major pack members in his mind. He had brought files with him for reference, but he prided himself on not needing them. After all, he had once seen the newest Hale alpha firsthand. Scott McCall. The alpha had been young, almost as young as himself. Part Hispanic, unassuming stature, dark hair, dark eyes. A True Alpha. That made McCall the only alpha who had gotten his power without killing another wolf or because a pack member had died. He could respect that. A benevolent monster was still a monster, however.

The True Alpha’s second-in-command--the one with the name no one could pronounce--had come to Mexico as well. Taller, pale skin, lighter hair, amber eyes. Little Esmeralda had confessed to her brother that she found the Human Alpha--for that was what people called the boyish wolf with haunted eyes who never seemed to transform--attractive. As a protective older brother, he hadn’t had the heart to scold her for her crush, even though it was extremely inappropriate. He had also refrained from telling her that the innocent-looking boy who had caught her eye was the infamous subject of the saying that had been circulating near the border since a few months beforehand: _El caos sigue el lobo humano_.* Not just any werewolf; a _human wolf_ , who left chaos in his wake.

They didn’t have as much information about the Hale pack’s betas. It was known that several of them had Hale blood: the former alpha Talia’s son, Derek, who could take the form of a real wolf, Talia’s youngest daughter, and two bastard half-siblings sired by Talia’s brother who might have a connection to the Desert Wolf. There were at least two other betas--bitten wolves; another sign of the Beacon Hills hunters’ negligence--and a few allies, but no one of note. Except for the girl.

Track and report. That was his assignment, and it was the only reason he had been allowed to go alone. When his grandmother had decided that someone should visit Beacon Hills, he had jumped at the chance to prove himself. Maybe if he did well, he would be allowed to join the older hunters on more dangerous missions.

He was proud to be able to say that it had taken him less than a day to find the girl. Then he had spent the next few days tracking her, taking careful notes on her schedule and habits, the people--and the creatures who pretended to be people--she interacted with. On the third evening after his arrival he followed her to a bar downtown. He got himself a drink, found a table in a corner, and watched.

She was drinking alone--a strange habit for a girl who ran with wolves, but a lucky break for him. He watched carefully to see if one of the wolves or another ally joined her. However, after an hour had passed, she was still alone. He considered the idea that she was there looking for someone to take home with her, but she rebuffed two men and a woman while he watched.

Resigned to the likelihood that this would be an uneventful evening, he glanced down at his phone to check the time. Nearly eleven. Surely she would be going home soon.

When he looked back up, she was gone. His eyes frantically searched the area near where she had been sitting, darting to the dance floor, over toward the restrooms. But she was nowhere to be seen.

Until she suddenly slid into the chair across from him.

“Calavera,” said the girl, smiling sweetly.

There was no point denying who he was. A good hunter could usually recognize another hunter. Even if Allison Argent had never seen his face before, his looks and the fact that his clan was one of the closest in geographical proximity to Beacon Hills would have given him away.

“Argent,” said Teodoro Calavera, keeping his tone neutral as he let his eyes brazenly rake over her form. Tacky, perhaps, but it might make him seem more confident. In any case, Teo wouldn’t complain about having an excuse to appreciate the way she looked.

Pictures didn’t do her justice; she hadn’t smiled in them. She was beautiful, much more so than her aunt, who he had seen many years ago, when his clan had brought her in so they could force her to honor the Code. She had killed six of his clan members, including his older brother, before she had escaped. Teo determinedly reminded himself of this fact while the murderous were-jaguar’s niece sized him up. Beautiful or not, Allison Argent was a traitor.

“You’ve been following me,” said Allison.

“Yes.”

“Care to tell me why?”

Her smile was still firmly in place. Teo answered it with a confident smirk. He refused to show weakness to a girl from a clan who had betrayed the Code, even if she had caught him off guard.

“No.”

“I guess it doesn’t matter,” she said casually. “As long as you leave.”

“You have no authority here, Argent,” said Teo. “Your family gave up its claim to Beacon Hills when you stopped honoring the Code.”

“We stopped honoring _your_ code,” Allison corrected him. “ _Nous protégeons ceux qui ne peuvent pas se protéger eux-mêmes_.”**

Teo understood enough French to translate her meaning. He scoffed. “You protect _monsters_.”

“We keep the peace,” she said, her smile slipping into a look of challenge. “You’re the one who has no authority here. Your presence in this town is a challenge to the Hales. You should go back to Mexico before one of them catches you in their territory.”

“Is that a threat?” Teo found himself mentally reviewing which weapons he had brought with him and where they were.

“A friendly warning,” said Allison.

Before Teo could respond, a waitress showed up with a shot-glass filled with bright green liquid with red blooming in the middle of it.

“A Wolf Bite for you, sir,” she said brightly as she set it on the table in front of him. Allison paid the waitress.

“That one’s on me,” said Allison, her smile returning as she got to her feet. “Drive safe, Calavera. Give my best to the bitch who had one of my boyfriends tortured.”

Teo waited until just after she had left through the front door before getting up, leaving the drink untouched. As stealthily as he could, he went out to the parking lot and watched her go to her car. Then he got in his own car and followed her at a safe distance. Maybe it was a little reckless, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t done gathering information, and he refused to let her scare him off.

She drove to a nature preserve on the outskirts of the town. Teo remembered from the files that the Hales’ old house--the one that had burned down and killed most of them--was somewhere nearby. Would they really have rebuilt the house, even though its location was known by hunters now? By the time he had caught up with Allison’s car, it was empty. Warily, he got out of his own car, carrying his small crossbow at the ready, just in case. He wasn’t fool enough to approach a wolf’s den on his own, but he also wasn’t fool enough to go anywhere near one without a weapon.

There was a sudden movement in the dark to the left of him. Teo turned his head quickly, expecting to find Allison there. Instead--

Glowing red eyes. Teo shot a bolt from his crossbow on instinct, but there was no sound to indicate that it had hit anything. A figure emerged from the shadows.

The infamous Human Alpha was several years older now, but his deceptively innocent features were still frighteningly familiar. The alpha was holding the crossbow bolt in his hand. The red in his eyes dimmed back to human brown, but that did little to make him seem less threatening.

Teo’s blood ran cold, breath seizing in his chest. Of all the wolves he could have accidentally attacked, this one was the last he would have chosen.

“Calavera, right?” The alpha’s smile was unsettlingly friendly, even more so than Allison’s had been. He twirled the bolt in his fingers as he said, “Nice of you to drop in. You should probably leave before one of the crankier puppies catches your scent, though. Derek lost at Scrabble this morning and also a hunter seduced him and burned most of his family alive when he was a teenager and he has trouble letting things go.”

Allison appeared at the alpha’s side. She took the bolt from him and shook it at Teo in a scolding manner, tsking like she would to a misbehaving child.

“I warned you to stop following me,” she said smugly.

Teo was suddenly aware of new sounds, more movements in the shadows. Other figures joined the alpha and Allison, more and more sets of glowing eyes burning in the darkness: red, gold, blue, and… _orange_? There were at least ten of them. They weren’t all werewolves, but they were all _something_.

“Too late, kid,” the Human Alpha said to Teo as he made room for his packmates.

A black wolf and a sandy coyote--both with blue eyes--loped to the front of the group, flanking another young man with a familiar face.

“ _Hola, Calavera_ ,” said Scott McCall. “ _Bueno verte de nuevo_.”***

 _Mierda_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ROUGH TRANSLATIONS:  
> *"Chaos follows the human wolf."  
> **"We protect those who cannot protect themselves." (Allison's new Argent hunter code from TW canon)  
> ***"Good to see you again."  
> \----  
> I am feeling so many feels right now, you guys. This fic has taken me nearly two years to complete (MUCH longer than I had hoped), and it's been a crazy ride. Definitely stressful at times, especially with everything else I was working on at the same time, but I'm really happy with the way it turned out, and I really hope you are, too. You guys have been amazing every step of the way, leaving kudos and wonderful comments and being patient with me even when there were weeks and weeks between chapters. I couldn't have done it without your support!
> 
> Did you like the ending? I hope you did! I know the epilogue is kind of a tease, but I like things to be a bit open-ended and exciting :) I must tell you right now, though: There will not be a sequel to _DL_. As interesting as it would be to see what would happen to my version of _DL_ if I integrated it into 3B an beyond, it would be an immense amount of work, and I just don't have the time or the energy to do it right. I gave you some hints in the epilogue about who from later canon is part of my _DL_ headcanon, and about which canon events are part of _DL_ (esp from 3B), etc. If you really want to be told "what happens," ask me in the comments and I'll be happy to discuss!
> 
> I've also posted the final chapter of the three-part **side miniseries** for _DL_ ( _Divided Loyalties: Trinity_ ) that I wrote with [Savannah_Clover](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Savannah_Clover). It's about what was going on with Scott, Isaac, and Allison in the background of the main fic. You can find it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5609692).
> 
> Also, the Jackson/Isaac fic that I was co-writing with [Savannah_Clover](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Savannah_Clover) is done! The fic is called _The Strength of the Wolf_ and it can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3703403). There's also a three-part side series to be read along with the final few chapters (it's posted as a "series" with the main fic, so it should be easy to find).
> 
> Sooooo many thanks are due to [Ismene_Jane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ismene_Jane) for being an incredible beta from the beginning to end of _DL_ and on other projects as well. Love you, hun! Couldn't have done it without you (especially the Derek bits)! Finally, thanks to Savannah_Clover for helping me grapple the canon integration and a bunch of other issues at the end, and for the awesome experience of writing _The Strength of the Wolf_ and helping with motivation and stuff. It really helped with the last push!
> 
> Okay, I guess... I guess that's it? Wow, this feels weird. Um. Feel free to leave comments just to talk to me or if you have any thoughts on the ending or anything like that. I'm going to miss you guys! Take care :)


End file.
